


The Strongest Things

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Boats, CreveCoeur, Friendship, Happy Ending, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, Legos, Light Case Fic, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Mention of parental drug use, Murder, Pre-Romantic Relationship, Typical Episode Violence, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Hathaway spent the night with Scarlett Mortmaigne during the CreveCoeur case. "I don't do this," he told her. He believed her when she told him that no one would ever know that they had spent the night together. What if she lied?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strongest Things

**Author's Note:**

> Synchronicity. Gonna have to start wearing an aluminum foil hat. (I'd post it later but now that everyone's enjoyed Father James by Pandabob, it was time. Great minds... BUT--this is quite a different story.)

"Have you read it?" Lewis blurted. He held his mobile in one hand, the book in his other.

"Yeah." Hathaway sounded subdued on the line.

"You had no idea."

"None."

Lewis slammed the book shut on his thigh. "You think it might be true?"

Silence.

"James?"

"I planned," Hathaway put a heavy emphasis on the word, "to have dinner with her. That's all. We had a lot to drink."

"So it's possible, then. Well, what are you going to do, man?"

"I don't know yet."

"You don't—" Lewis sighed, counted to three and said, as calmly as he could manage, "Would you like some company?"

"I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"You'd be doing me a favor, lad. Can’t get her book out of me head. I'm coming over." Lewis rang off and got his coat before James could say another word. 

He stopped by the market and picked up a six pack of Newcastle Brown to start with. Even if James didn't need a drink, he did. 

This was not something to talk about on the phone. Scarlett Mortmaigne wrote a 'tell all' expose while in prison; the book reached Oxford bookshelves that morning. Huge display in the Waterstones window. A quick sensational trashy expose that documented years of her father's pedophilia, how it marked everyone at CreveCoeur, his financial demise, her broken engagement to a wealthy Middle Eastern family—oh, it was a crackerjack read.

Especially the steamy tale of sleeping with a dear old friend the night before her engagement party.

Her dear old friend in law enforcement.

And the boy she'd given birth to in prison who was the product of that one-night stand. 

Lewis took deep breaths as he drove. What to say to the man? Unlike some of the others featured in her book, at least she hadn't named James directly, hadn't described him other than to say he was fair-haired, tender, loving and tall and wasn't that James? That he had a 'deep, sultry voice' and 'long, talented, clever fingers'? Oh, and that his lovemaking made her feel 'wicked and naughty beyond redemption.'

That alone would be enough, right there, Lewis thought, to send Hathaway off on walkabout, especially since he was so closely associated with the case. 

But to find out he was a father? From a book?

Why the hell hadn't she told him—five years gone and the boy growing up without a father? 

His mobile chirped—and kept on chirping. Dispatch? He wasn't on rota; he pulled over to check. "Meet @ CreveCoeur. Murder."

Bloody hell.

++++ 

Hathaway stood apart from the police circus, arms folded, his head bowed. He glanced up at Lewis.

He must have driven like the proverbial bat outta hell to get here so quickly, Lewis thought.

"Scarlett was killed about two hours ago. Fillet knife to the throat. One of the kitchen staff portrayed in the book. Broke down in the scullery, confessed." He swallowed, red faced and miserable. "Inspector Bhatia has the case. She's inside."

"The boy?"

"Last seen running from the house. Killer said the boy came in to the kitchen looking for his mother," Hathaway chewed on the inside of his cheek, regained control by shoving his hands into his pockets. "Innocent's on site. I'm to stay here."

Lewis rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. He reached out, squeezed James' shoulder. "Right. I'll go see what I can find out."

"I need to do something. He's—" James shook his head as if to clear it. "He'll hide. Harder to find him in the dark."

"I know. I'll talk with Innocent. Where should we be looking?"

"At that age, I'd run out to—we all used to play in—" he gathered himself and tried again, ticking places off on his fingers. "Shed behind the summerhouse, hayloft in the main barn, and there's a Roman stone wall remnant near the copper beeches north of Lodge Farm." He put on that mask-like expression he used sometimes. "Hide for days there."

"How long did you hide there?" Lewis murmured, mindful that he was treading on a past that was never discussed. 

"Day and a half once."

Hathaway turned away so that Lewis couldn't see his expression. "I can help, Robbie. I know where he'd go." He turned around, the saddest look on his face. "Some things you don't forget, no matter how hard you try."

Lewis nodded and went to find Innocent.

++++

"Social services is on the way," Jean Innocent said quietly. 

"What's the lad's name?"

Innocent sighed, her mouth a thin line. "Jamie."

"Perfect," said Lewis, a sour taste in his mouth. Damn that woman, damn her to hell if there is such a thing. To keep a child from his father, then to name the boy after him. What was it about this place, was it inherently evil? Was his nibs a victim of abuse himself? It seemed as if the stones of the great house itself carried the screams of victims and damaged survivors. He felt sick to his stomach.

The SOCO team brought out the bagged body of Scarlett Mortmaigne. Several of the house staff watched the proceedings, but there was no weeping, no distress. Good riddance, they seemed to say. 

"That's all of the staff?"

"Yes. She'd only returned from America five months ago. These are the 'loyal retainers' that remained after his Lordship was arrested. None of them appreciated being featured in her book, apparently. It was only a matter of time, one of them said."

"Have you read it?"

She nodded. "Let's save those issues for my office. If I'm going to call you two on the carpet for something that happened five years ago, I need a carpet." She turned, suddenly alert, and then her shoulders slumped. "Were you the decoy, Lewis? Our boy has bolted." She indicated the spot where Hathaway had been standing minutes before. 

There was no sign of the man.

++++

"This is an awesome hiding place."

As he came over the rise, Lewis heard the boy speaking in an American accent, and could see a portion of Hathaway's leg protruding from the pile of stones, trousers impeccably creased and now muddy at the knee. It was an excellent hiding place. If Hathaway hadn't told him, he would never have found it.

"Those are natural ledges. We put candles there when we were children." There was the sound of movement, a lighter. 

"Cool."

"These rocks are part of an ancient Roman wall. You can see it from the outside if you like."

"Romans are—um, like the guys in white dresses, right?"

"Togas, yeah."

"Like 'toga, toga, toga!' like that movie about the food fight?"

There was silence.

"You know. That movie with the fat guy who yells, 'Food fight!' and then they get all shitfaced."

"Please don't use that kind of language."

"Mom's boyfriend says shit all the time. Like he says, to go wait in the yard cause they were gonna get shitfaced. Is that like being drunk?"

"Yes. When was the last time you saw your mum's boyfriend?"

"Mom. Mom. MOM."

"When did you last see him?"

"When the cops came. They got lights and chased him down the street mom said."

"Here?"

"No. Back home. My house. He got to the fence and they fired guns and everything. It was on TV."

"Did this happen before you came to England?"

"Yeah. It sucked. My mom? You know, like, she got killed, right? Knife right here. Lots of blood. Not like 'Supernatural,' though. Do you think she'll come back as a demon?"

"No. It would be easier to explain if we weren't in here. Let's go out."

"I gotta stay in the dark."

"Do you understand what happened to your mum?"

"Why'd you call her that? Everyone here says, 'mum' but she's my mom. Mom," he said, exaggerating the short 'o' sound. "She'll be fine 'cause she'll be a demon."

"C'mon, Jamie. We need to go back to the house now."

"What for?"

"I'm a policeman. We need to talk with you."

"Are you going to put handcuffs on me? I don't like handcuffs. Mom had some in her bedroom and I put them on too tight."

That's it, thought Lewis. "Hathaway! Detective Inspector Hathaway! You're needed back at the house!"

"Hear that? Let's go."

"Shit."

"Please stop using that word."

"You're not my dad, you can't tell me what to do!"

"What has your mum told you about your dad?"

"I don't got one."

Hathaway scooted out from the dugout, his usually pristine suit covered in dirt. One hand was around the upper arm of a thin little boy wearing filthy jeans and a black Metallica T-shirt that hung to his knees. The kid clutched a bright backpack with a cartoon Lego figure on it. 

Jamie's blond hair was long and shaggy for a boy, and perhaps he looked a little bit like his mother around the mouth, but the shape of his head, his eyes, his nose and jaw were pure Hathaway. The kid frowned like he'd be a handful.

Apparently James felt the same since he hadn't let go of the child's arm and his hold on it was determined, rather than friendly or paternal. The boy jerked on the hold and then tilted up his head—there were tear tracks running down his cheeks and his nose was black with dirt and snot. His look was defiant.

Seeing this, Hathaway dropped his hold, pulled out a handkerchief, squatted next to the boy and seemed about to wipe the child's face when he caught himself and offered it to Jamie instead. 

The kid stared at him quizzically and examined the folded white cloth, folding it this way and that. 

"It's a handkerchief," Hathaway glanced up at Lewis, almost in horror. "Use it like a tissue to wipe your nose." Jamie streaked dirt across his face obediently, looking from one man to the other. 

Hathaway sighed as he rose, taking back the handkerchief. "Inspector Lewis. This is Jamie Mortmaigne."

"Hi, Jamie," Lewis smiled sadly, despite himself. Poor wee lad. He had bigger worries than wiping his nose. "Inspector Hathaway, we—all of us—are needed back at the house."  
.  
"Shit," said the boy, waiting for a reaction.

Lewis squatted to the boy's height, his hand on the child's shoulder. He could feel the boy trembling beneath his hand. "Did you miss lunch, Jamie?" At the boy's nod he continued, "Inspector Hathaway's going to text them that we're on our way and that you're hungry."

"Can I have peanut butter and jelly?" 

Lewis smiled slightly. "Oh, yeah, sure. Can even have the crusts cut off."

Jamie nodded. "I was going to the kitchen to get a sandwich."

"I'm so sorry, lad."

Jamie shrugged, his long face pale beneath the dirt. "No big deal."

Lewis took a deep breath. Lad had to be in shock. Hard to know if the boy meant, 'No big deal, it's just a sandwich' or if he was expressing an opinion about his mother's murder. He decided to ignore it entirely. 

"Heard you've been in England for several months," Lewis said conversationally, watching Hathaway stride ahead.

"I guess so."

"Where'd you live in America?"

The boy smiled. "We lived in L.A. near the beach. I got a boogie board."

"What's that?"

The lad looked at him seriously. "Like a surfboard. Duh."

Lewis felt his parental feathers ruffle and reminded himself—again—that the boy had just seen his mother murdered. Strange that the kid no real reaction. Maybe he believed that she'd pop out from behind a bush. What was this Supernatural, anyway? 

Still. How far had Scarlett Mortmaigne fallen that her son couldn't address an adult with respect? 

"Do you like school, Jamie?"

He shrugged a thin shoulder. The gesture and expressionless mask reminded Lewis of Hathaway. 

"Do you have a favorite subject?"

Jamie shrugged again.

"What do you like to do, then?"

"Playstation. Jake plays Call of Duty. Mom says it's gross, but he says she doesn't know sh—" He stopped.

"That it? Video games? And is Jake your friend?"

"Jake's mom's boyfriend. Me and Jake used to watch Supernatural. Then he went to jail cause he sells drugs. Mom—" He paused. "Is my mom dead, like real?"

Lewis sighed. "Yes. Your mum—your mom— is dead. I'm so sorry, lad."

Hathaway slowed, apparently eavesdropping.

"When she comes back as a demon, she can be happy. She was real sad. You know that big house? It was her house. The whole thing. There even used to be horses. She said I'd get to ride them, but I didn't."

"Jamie," Hathaway said quietly, "Your mother won't come back as a demon. She's—" he turned, his face bleak as he looked to the estate house ahead. "She's not coming back at all. She's gone. She's—." He dropped to the boy's level, his tone kind though matter of fact. "When people die, they don't come back as anything. Do you understand?" 

"Yeah. I'm not stupid. I know she's dead. Duh. I saw her. So when she comes back as a demon--"

"You needn't be afraid that your mother is coming back as a demon, Jamie," said Hathaway, gently.

"James," Lewis said quietly. "Leave it be. Let social services."

"Is your name James too? That's my real name. Mom wouldn't let people call me Jim. Had to be Ja—m mie." He said this in a sing-song voice. "It's a kinda gay name. Jamie."

"Please do not use the word 'gay' that way."

"Jake says being gay is bad. He hates fags."

Hathaway took a resigned breath. "Do you even know what that word means?"

"No, but Jake says—"

"Jake isn't here," Lewis intervened. "Using words to hurt someone—it's a bad thing to do."

The boy looked at him seriously. "Is Jake a bad guy?"

Hathaway sighed. "You said Jake sold drugs. Drug dealers are bad guys."

"My mom was in jail when she had me. She said I'm a bad guy. I was born a bad guy."

"You are not a bad guy, Jamie, you're—" Hathaway shoved his hands in his pockets, red faced, almost teary eyed. "—You're a child." He turned to Lewis, exasperated, upset. "How could she say that?"

"Jamie. Doesn't make a bit of difference where you were born." Lewis gave the boy and Hathaway a worried look. Standing together, Hathaway and the boy, you could see the resemblance in their faces, their builds, the way they stood: both of them sad, miserable, worried, desolate, and angry. Very angry. The weight of the world seemed to push Hathaway down—his legs were spread as if he needed the stability, as if he was in danger of falling over.

The SOCO vans were packing up as they came up to the house. Jean Innocent, Laura Hobson, and a young man stood together on the steps next to a couple of plastic bags. They stopped talking as Lewis, Hathaway, and Jamie got closer. Innocent and Hobson smiled tentatively at the boy. Hobson came up to James and touched his arm, sympathetically. 

"Michael Boatwright is with social services," she said gently to James. She included Lewis in her gaze as if to ask what had happened.

Hands were shaken all around—probably because Boatwright was American. Lewis couldn't remember the last time he shook hands at a crime scene. The boy watched, fascinated as greetings were exchanged between the men and Innocent and Hobson took their leave. Lewis then made a point of formally introducing 'Mr. Boatwright' to Jamie. 

"Jamie was saying that he might prefer to be called 'Jim,'" Lewis informed the caseworker. 

Boatwright pretended to consider this. "That's good to know, but for now, let's keep it 'Jamie.'" 

"Why do guys in suits shake hands?" Jamie asked. 

Hathaway's mouth curled up in the faint ghost of smile. "It is an ancient way of showing that you're not carrying weapons."

"Like a gun?"

"Swords and knives, mostly."

"Cool." 

Lewis closed his eyes. Great, let's remind the boy that his mum was found with a knife in her throat. Lewis bent to the child's level. "When you shake hands with an adult, you look him in the eye and put your hand straight out like this." Lewis rose and reached out to Hathaway, who sighed, shaking his hand. "You say your name. So I say, I'm Inspector Lewis." 

Hathaway gave a nod. "Nice to meet you, Inspector Lewis. I'm James Hathaway."

Lewis then dropped to a crouch next to the boy. "Men are always called 'Mister' and then their last name. Go ahead, try it."

Jamie stuck out his hand obediently and looked directly at Hathaway. "My name is Jamie—Jim—" he gave Boatwright a sideways glance as he changed his name, "Jim Mortmaigne." He managed the rest carefully: "Nice to meet you, Mr. Hathaway."

Hathaway had an unreadable expression on his face as he took the boy's hand. "Nice to meet you, too." He seemed unsure what else to say. "Jim," he said very quietly.

Lewis rose with a sigh.

"Mr. Hathaway knew your mother, Jamie," said Boatwright, softly. 

"My mom got killed so she can be a demon," said Jim. "I want to be called Jim."

Boatwright nodded. "We're going to talk about that. I work for social services—we take care of children when their parents can't take care of them. We have a house with other boys and girls. You'll have your own room—"

"Do you have Playstation?"

Boatwright smiled. "Not exactly." He indicated the bags. "We've got some of your clothes here for a few days. We can always come back later for more of your things. Is there anything you want for tonight that isn't here?"

The boy stared at the bags and sighed. He chewed his thumbnail in an eerie imitation of Hathaway, who saw the gesture and closed his eyes, pained. 

"Um."

Boatwright dropped to the boy's level and said very quietly, "There was a little blanket under your pillow. I brought it along, just in case."

The boy relaxed and gave a satisfied nod. 

Boatwright rose. "We're going to spend the rest of the afternoon and tomorrow morning getting you settled."

"Is it like jail?'

"No. Some children think it's like having a big family."

"I just had my mom and Jake."

"Jake was Scarlett Mortmaigne's nefarious reprobate boyfriend," said Hathaway, matter of fact. 

"I'll keep that in mind" said Boatwright, artificially pleasant. 

"Jake's in jail. That's why we got here."

"Oh. Well," said Boatwright, with a forced smile. "Lots to talk about, then." He handed a card to Hathaway, and one to Lewis. 

"What's that?" the boy asked, pointing.

"A business card. It's a way to give people your name and phone number," Hathaway pulled a card from his breast pocket. "This is mine."

The boy stared at the card. He gave Hathaway a huge smile. "Thanks, Mr. Hathaway. This is cool."

Hathaway's mouth curled up at the corners. "You're welcome, Jim."

The boy grinned, nodded, staring at the card. "Awesome."

Lewis and Hathaway watched Boatwright and the boy leave. 

On the way to their cars, Lewis took in his friend's hunched shoulders, the hands in the pockets, the way Hathaway seemed to be chewing himself up from the inside out. He paused before he got in, his hand on the roof of the vehicle. 

"Six years ago, we had words about this place. About the investigation."

Hathaway bristled. His voice was ice. "I haven't seen or heard from Scarlett Mortmaigne since the day I testified at the trial."

Lewis then put his hand in his pocket for keys, watching Hathaway closely. Waiting. "Right. I'm buying," Lewis said quietly.

Hathaway shrugged as if he didn't care. He was staring at the manor house. 

+++++++

"Wonder how the lad is getting on," Lewis said, trying to get Hathaway to talk. The man was on his second pint and hadn't said a word. Lewis excused himself to go to the loo and rang up Hobson.

"I'm almost done with the body. How is he?"

Lewis sighed. "Bad. Hasn't said a word."

"Robbie," Laura took a deep breath, as if making a decision. "Oh, Robbie."

"Laura—" She was hedging, he could hear it. "Aw, no. Not cut and dried, then?—what, the woman on the kitchen staff isn't the killer?"

"It's not that, it's—irregular. I've spoken with Jean. Bhatia and Julie are still out at the site."

"At least Julie's out there. Oh, you know what I mean, I just don't know Inspector Bhatia at all yet, and it's too important—" A tall shadow loomed behind him. He turned. "Things to do. Gotta go." He addressed Hathaway. "Checking to see if I fell in?"

Hathaway extended a hand as if guiding Lewis back to the table. "Not a simple attack then."

"Didn't say that," grumbled Lewis, taking his seat.

"You didn't have to," Hathaway had started on another pint. A fresh beer was at Lewis' elbow. 

Hathaway waited a beat, two. "I saw the body."

Lewis raised his eyebrows. "How'd you manage that?"

"Rather not say."

"Julie."

Hathaway stared at the table, not saying a word.

"Better not let Innocent find out."

Jean Innocent came up and dropped her bag on a chair beside them. She set a glass of wine on the table. "I already know. Julie told me." Her eyes blazed. "Inspector Hathaway."

"Ma'am." James gave the Chief Super a deceptively mild look and went back to his beer. The color began to rise in his face.

Innocent's mouth thinned. The color in her face drained in anger, leaving her face pale and her eyes cold.

Lewis stood up. "I can tell this won't be good for a pensioner's blood pressure." He walked outside, waiting for Laura, for Fatima Bhatia, for Julie—anyone to keep him from having to listen to Hathaway being read the riot act. What was James thinking? He knew better. Julie knew better. 

The person he felt sorry for was Fatima Bhatia, who couldn't count on her sergeant's loyalty. And while Julie wasn't entirely blameless, she couldn't be faulted for giving in to a superior's direction and he had no doubt that Hathaway had said something. 

The man inspired devotion, no question.

Lewis walked past the window, hazarding a glance. The two at the table inside were sitting ramrod straight. The glass of wine sat untouched in front of Innocent. Hathaway was talking.

Interesting. Usually he kept quiet, the better to land a zinger or two. Not this time, though.

He didn't appear defensive, didn't appear nonchalant, either. Seemed matter of fact.

"Rubbernecking?" Laura inquired, appearing at his arm. 

"Bit of a dust-up," he admitted. 

They peered in the window until Innocent beckoned them back inside. 

"Is it safe?" Laura wanted to know, sliding into the chair beside Jean.

"James just tendered his resignation."

"If he goes—" said Robbie and Laura at the same time.

"Oh, please," Jean muttered in disgust. "I didn't accept it. Don't even think of closing ranks on this." She leaned in. "All discussion and speculation outside of the formal investigation ends here now. I will forgive it once, given the circumstances. But I will write up every one of you on disciplinary charges if procedures are not followed to the letter. Too visible in the media by half." 

"Most importantly— I'm not having you disrupting another officer's work." She slumped against the back of her chair, eyes closed, as if gathering strength, and then leaned forward, rubbing her temples, elbows on the table. "Inspector Bhatia suggested, and I concur, that allowances be made."

She looked up, resigned. 

"Dr. Hobson. Would you please quietly share your findings with Inspectors Lewis and Hathaway ? I don't want to possibly fire Gurdip for sharing your report." She sipped her wine and observed, "My Twitter account is more secure than the server we use for active cases." 

A smile played on Hobson's mouth. "Gladly." She pulled a half slip of paper from her pocket. "Scarlett ate a late hearty breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, coffee, orange juice and four ounces of tequila." 

Not taking her eyes from her note, Laura reached over and rested her hand on James' giving it a brief squeeze before she continued. "Hefty doses of oxycontin, dilaudid, and hydrocodone were consumed with breakfast, about ninety minutes prior to being stabbed—she was barely breathing at the time of the attack. SOCO found three partial bottles of pills in her room, all prescribed by different American physicians for back pain. No evidence of any back or spinal abnormality, though certainly she might have suffered from minor idiopathic nerve damage. 

"In addition she had nicotine and THC in her system, the latter possibly from the evening before. She would have felt very little pain." She folded up the paper, glanced at Jean, and then handed it to James, who nodded his thanks.

"Explains why there was so little blood," he said, staring at the page. 

"It does indeed," said Hobson.

"So we have additional suspects?" asked Lewis.

"Sorted." Jean said. "The woman who confessed to the killing is already in custody." Innocent regarded the two men and sighed. "I will talk with Inspector Bhatia tomorrow morning to see if she feels additional resources should be allocated. Specifically for locating next of kin and the boyfriend."

Voices rose and feel around them, glasses clattered—all of the usual pub noises seemed amplified at the suddenly silent table. 

"Hathaway, I thought you would want to take care of this as soon as possible. I've made arrangements for you to appear here, first thing in the morning," Innocent handed him a business card from a DNA lab. "We can't do the test in-house due to chain of custody concerns. Takes about three days. The results will become a matter of public record."

"Aren't they already?" he said, a bitter tinge to his voice.

"What I don't understand—" Lewis began, a puzzled expression on his face.

"And you with two children," quipped Laura, trying to lighten the mood. At Lewis' cold stare, she retreated into her glass of juice.

Lewis tried again, cutting her off. "What I don't understand—" he said clearly, "--is the timing. Why did Scarlett come back to Oxford at all? Book like that would sell whether she was here or not."

"Maybe she wanted to see the fallout first hand." Hathaway leaned on an elbow, head in hand. 

Jean pulled out her phone, tapping a few keys before setting it aside. "I've asked Inspector Bhatia to add that to the questioning of the staff tomorrow. It is entirely possible that our suspect did administer drugs to subdue her intended victim—Bhatia is following up with that now. With the suspect in custody, a motive, and a confession there didn't seem to be much point in authorizing overtime to talk with everyone at the estate this evening. Unfortunately, the media coverage will probably increase the sales of her book."

"Oh, joy. Movie rights," Hathaway intoned, sarcastically. He finished his beer and glanced at Lewis.

"That's three. I'm not counting, just buying." Lewis sighed heavily. "You might be a father." He took up his beer. "Helluva way to celebrate."

"Time honored tradition—beer and friends. Missing the cigars, though," said Laura, kindly. 

""Inspector Bhatia plans to go over the prison visitation records," said Jean Innocent."We shouldn't jump to conclusions." 

"Timing's right." Lewis frowned. "Spitting image of the man." He evaluated Hathaway. "Has the same unfortunate shaped face," he joked, his slight smile fading as his attempt to lighten the mood fell flat.

Hathaway's gaze was fixed on the tabletop, miserable. "I've never thought about children. Being a parent never even occurred to me." 

"Not everyone is cut out for it, certainly," said Jean, sipping her wine. "Chris loved football when he was that age. I was 'volunteered' to coach."

"Mark liked cricket. Oh, and Legos," said Lewis.

"Legos. I think we were still finding them in the carpet even as Chris went off to university." Jean smiled at the memory. "Spent hours building a Millenium Falcon." She smiled to herself. “I think he took the Lego model with him, as a matter of fact.”

"See, James? You have parent resources right here. And my godson is about his age—could get them together, if you like. He's a nice boy," Hobson offered.

"You mean he hasn't been influenced by a drug dealer, violent video games, and American culture?" Hathaway turned the empty mug in his hands.

Hobson smiled sympathetically in reply.

Hathaway settled back, away from the table, expression guarded. "You make parenting sound like a group project."

Jean toasted him with the remains of her wine. "It takes a village."

++++

"We haven't been able to locate her next of kin yet. Rather than enlisting a confirmation of her identity from Inspector Hathaway, I would like to bring in one of the tenants of the estate." Inspector Fatima Bhatia ticked off the item from her smart tablet and waited for a response. 

Innocent nodded. "That would be fine." She folded her hands on her desk. "I need to talk with you about your sergeant's behavior."

Bhatia held up an elegant hand. "What could she do? I have spoken to her, yes, about my expectations in the future. She showed admirable loyalty to her mentor. She reported it to me immediately, and then I to you." She smoothed the drape of her tunic over her slacks. "I am certain it will not happen again."

"Good. I won't tolerate insubordination." 

"I think she meant to be compassionate." 

"I'm glad you're handling this well. Some of my officers might have turned it into a power struggle."

"A pissing contest," said Bhatia. "Not something I would stand for," she said, cheekily. 

Innocent gave a rueful chuckle. 

Bhatia looked at her tablet and set it on her knee. "I would like your consideration and permission to extend Inspector Hathaway access to the boy with appropriate supervision, if he wishes." Bhatia smiled slightly. "I think it would help him."

"Jamie?"

"Inspector Hathaway," said Bhatia. "If he is later determined to be the father, how would that appear to the boy? Being set aside until a blood relationship is established?"

"And if Hathaway is not the boy's father, what then?"

Bhatia conceded the possibility with a tilt of her head. "Then he has an opportunity to make a difference in the life of a child who seems to be in need of it. Shouldn't he be allowed to make that decision for himself?"

++++

Hathaway didn't have to be there. Didn't have to look at her. Didn't have to take time out of his day.

Didn't have to bother.

But she'd been his friend when he was young. A children's wedding with daisy crowns for both of them and paperclip wedding rings drifted through his memories. A summer moment beside a garden fountain. 

She wasn't particularly pretty. It had been the light in her eyes that made her special, that made her beautiful. She looked old, lying there inert. The sheet didn't cover her hand and as he shifted it, he saw the scars on the inside of her wrist. 

They hadn't been there before her conviction, but they didn't look new. 

Something else he didn't know about her. Something else he'd been unable to prevent.

He suddenly went light-headed, stumbling into a chair before breaking down into tears completely.

So fucking pointless. 

He was furious that she wasn't around for him to question—why did she keep the child—his child?—a secret? Hadn't she had enough fucking secrets in her life? What the fuck had she been thinking? Was this her revenge? 

He bit the side of his thumb hard and dropped his hand. 

He didn't notice the faces of Hobson and Innocent looking through the small glass window of the door to the autopsy room. 

Didn't notice that Inspector Bhatia had glanced in the same window and then taken the tenant of the estate some tea while they waited for paperwork to be completed so that the body could be viewed and identified.

But he did notice that a cup of tea was waiting for him at his desk when he returned.

It was a small thing, but it mattered. 

++++  
"They put a q-tip in my mouth and sticked my finger but I didn't cry. No big deal." Jim shrugged. Hathaway knew the feeling—Hobson had supervised the technician from the specialized lab who gathered the same samples from him that morning as well.

He suspected that Innocent had roped Hobson into going with him to make sure he took care of it.

Jim quickly sorted the Legos by size and color into piles on the small table in his room. "I don't got these at my house. Mom said I'd lose 'em and Jake thought they were stupid." He smiled shyly at Hathaway. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Hathaway stared at the boy's hands, the long fingers so like his own, the shape of his thumb—well, he must have his mother's thumb. 

He couldn't remember. Didn't want to remember the cold pale hand he'd held the day before.

Jim pressed the pieces together quickly, barely looking at the booklet. He finished a section. "Is this okay, Mr. Hathaway?"

Hathaway took the piece and compared it to the photo. "Is this right?" he asked Jim. 

Jim took the model, scrutinized the picture, and redid a portion without comment. 

"Nice work," said Hathaway. Is this what good parents do, he wondered. I don't remember my parents doing this. Would I be willing to spend hours hunched over a model? I wonder if Lewis built things with Mark and Lyn. 

Jim's gaze kept straying to the book on the table. James spent the better part of the morning looking for a particular children's collection of mythology that he liked as a child, and it made him smile to see the boy's interest in the toga clad men depicted on the cover. I remember my mum reading to me.

"Do you like being read to?" asked Hathaway.

"Mrs. Ramirez used to read to us. She was my teacher. She didn't think I could read."

Hathaway's heart gave a leap. Though young, the boy could read. He was reading himself at this age. There was hope. "Are you a good reader?"

"Yeah. My mom wrote a book about her house? I read it on her laptop."

Hathaway felt a little sick. "Oh."

"Then Jake showed me."

"He—did you tell Mr. Boatwright this?"

"Jake said it was a secret. No big deal."

Hathaway's hands were shaking so badly he knocked some Legos on the floor.

"You okay, Mr. Hathaway?"

"Yep." He glanced up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room, wondering if it was sufficiently modern to pick up ambient sound. He took out his mobile and sent a text to Boatwright, hoping the man could make some time to talk with him before he left. He picked up the Legos scattered on the floor.

"You missed some," Jim dived down to look and brought up two more in his hand. "I'm good at finding shi—stuff."

"Tell me about Jake."

"He left us." The boy shrugged a think shoulder. "My mom's gone." Jim heaved a sigh. "Her eyes were open. Then the demons come.” He opened his eyes wide and stared at Hathaway. “Like that. They get black on TV."

Hathaway saw open, sightless eyes far too often, but to see it as a child? To see your mother like that? He couldn't imagine what the child—possibly his child—was going through. He truly didn't know what to do—not knowing what was appropriate, what was expected, what was allowed.

"I'm sorry, Jim. Your mum and I were good friends a long time ago." Do I tell him I lived there? He's read her book. But he couldn't possibly understand it all. Do I tell him how it was? What the hell am I supposed to do?

He watched as a tear slide slowly down the boy's face. "My mom's dead." Another tear followed, and suddenly Jim was crying and reaching out for Hathaway.

It may not have been the legally appropriate thing to do, but as Hathaway hugged the sobbing child he knew it was the right thing to do.

+++++

"He'll be fine for now," said Boatwright, closing the door to his office after they had walked the boy down to the playroom. He'd come in while Jim was crying; James had settled the boy on his lap so he could hold him closer. It seemed to help.

Seemed to help them both, really.

He was sure he wasn't supposed to do that, though—hold a child without a supervisor in the room. He'd caught hell from Innocent just for talking with a minor without another adult present—that case with the gifted girl, Zoe Suskin. Of course we must protect the children.

But how do we protect them from their parents? Their parent's boyfriend or girlfriend? Violent peers? The school shooter? The revenge killer with a kitchen knife? 

He re-focused on what Boatwright was saying. 

"I wish Helen had been on when you came in, you would have received a more thorough briefing about the facility, procedures and the like." Boatwright smiled. "Jamie has been through a great deal. But. He's strong, smart. Good to see him cry. And how are you doing, Inspector? Imagine it's hard on you, too." His eyes were professionally kind. 

Hathaway took a deep breath and sighed. "Because it's an active investigation, I am limited in what I can and cannot do for Jim. I had to get permission from my boss to bring him a toy and a book. I doubt I'm allowed to hold a crying child on my lap without another adult in the room."

"Welcome to my world," said Boatwright with an air of resignation. "Of course, we have CCTV in each child's room as you saw, and in the common areas. I have it in my office—though I turn off the mic when talking with an adult. Anything that transpires anywhere in this facility is completely confidential—I’m sure you're aware of that. If you have any general questions outside of the case or your own personal concerns, I'd be happy to talk with you to see what services might benefit you and make a recommendation, but I don't usually counsel adults. I can set up an appointment for you with someone, if you'd feel comfortable with that." He wore a reassuring smile. "There's always someone to talk to." 

"Have you read his mother's book?"

Boatwright nodded. "Quick read, but enough. I followed the case, of course. I've arranged for a specialist to talk with Jim later this afternoon. You're right to be concerned." He fiddled with a pen. "Inspector, it would be very helpful to know more about Jake—what he was arrested for, criminal record, how much time he's serving—that sort of thing—to help Jamie."

Hathaway nodded. He'd left messages yesterday, trying to trace Scarlett's life in the US, her involvement with a drug dealer. It seemed so out of character for her.

But then, she'd abetted a murderer and written an expose. He didn't really know her at all.

++++

"Inspector Bhatia and Julie have already been through here," Hathaway said. "We don't have to do this."

"No, I needed to be here because I was here the last time. This all started with Augustus Mortmaigne. He died in prison, Scarlett's dead now, Paul Hopkiss is never getting out of prison—I want an end to this whole bloody affair." Lewis checked under the bed and mattress, gloved hands moving quickly over surfaces. He realized with a start that he had used the word 'affair' and inwardly cringed. Wasn't an affair, one night stand, that's what it was. 

All of Oxford knew about it, too, every detail. Speculation about the 'child of the law enforcement officer' was all over the papers this morning, telly, too. 

Hathaway was watching him like a hawk. Moving occasionally, though he seemed mostly afraid that Lewis would find something and he wouldn't have a chance to snatch it away to examine it first. What if it held some small bit of information about Hathaway’s past? He imagined that his sodding former sergeant would snatch it from his hand. 

Because when he dropped Hathaway off last night, James apologized for revealing too much, between alcohol and anxiety. "I thought I could keep her from making a mistake. Be her transition person," confessed James. "I thought I could change her life."

"Might be you did, though you didn't know it."

"But not for the better. Not for that child," whispered James, unfolding himself from the car awkwardly. "Cheers, sir."

Hasn't called me 'sir' in over a year, thought Robbie, watching to make sure the man got in all right. Sat there for a few minutes more until the lights went dim in the flat. Drove home feeling empty despite all the beer. 

Lewis re-read portions of the book late last night. Scarlett had not named names except where individuals had been charged, but her descriptions were precise and heart-wrenching. Every child had been used in one way or another for the pleasure of the Lord of the estate. Not all of it was sexual. She wrote that some of it was a perverse subjugation borne of privilege. Because Mortmaigne was a weak flawed man he attacked and crushed the goodness and moral strength he saw in others. 

She used eloquence to describe depravity. Her father was a monster, plain and simple. He took what he wanted because he could.

She wrote that her father had his own justice that bent to his will alone. Harped on how he beat justice.

But James was never specifically described. There was no fair-haired boy except the one she had 'married' as a child hoping that they would run away together and be safe. That light-hearted happy lad couldn't have been James, though. In any case, that boy was never mentioned again.

Lewis wondered—not for the first time—if James had known about the abuse of the other children and had been powerless to stop it. Could explain why he went into the priesthood, hoping for redemption by helping others. Wanting to save the world. Explained, too, why he became a cop. 

It didn't matter. Well, it did, but that, like wondering who his former sergeant slept with, or didn't sleep with, was immaterial. James was James, unique and special for all that he was, all that he hid deep within himself. There was a part of Lewis that liked the mystery, the enigma, of James Hathaway. Frustrating as it was, he could spend years trying to solve the mystery of James Hathaway.

Nothing like a good mystery to get a detective's blood up.

James rifled through the nightstand, producing a smartpad, an e-reader. "Did anyone find a laptop?"

"Not that I know of."

"Jim said he read her book on a laptop." Hathaway wandered out of the room, texting the station. 

"He read it? What could she have been thinking, letting him read it?"

"What could she have been thinking to write it?" 

Lewis rubbed the back of his neck, looked at the ornate walls--paintings were gone now. Sun-bleached floors showed where rugs had once been. Take a lot of money to keep the place from going under. 

"Mortmaigne's second wife died a year ago—they had a house someplace in France. Gurdip's still trying to track down the half-brother, Titus—don't know where he's got to. Inherits it all. Maybe they can use this place as another 'Downton Abbey.'"

"Or use it for the Crevecoeur movie," said Hathaway in disgust. "Got my first call from the media yesterday, by the way."

"Didn't take them long." He thought of Jake, the boyfriend. Drug dealer. "Think we should bring in drug dogs to the house? See what else they turn up? Something other than the pills?"

"How would she have gotten them through customs—oh." Hathaway closed his eyes. "Jim."

"Using a little boy," Lewis didn't bother hiding his disgust. "But what's the point? She's got a bestseller here and she knew it. Why would she need drug money?"

"Maybe she had a drug habit. We don't know what she went through in prison, what she went through in moving to America." He heaved a sigh. "We don't know why she immigrated."

"Wanted to put it all aside, I reckon. Was she like this—aww, never mind, lad." Lewis went to look in the bathroom.

"I'll check the office down the hall."

 

It was a sitting room when he was a child. The blue wall covering had faded over the years, but the secretary desk was still in front of the window. There used to be a chaise lounge beneath a painting of a woman arranging flowers: both were gone now. 

He opened the drawers, dust motes floated in the air. In the bottom drawer was a cardboard shoe box of letters and notes.

Notes from her fiancé, apparently, though they weren't signed. 'I love seeing you smile first thing in the morning. Meet me for dinner.' 'Let's elope! Or at least let's talk about it. Call me later.' 'I must see you before I go back on the 22nd. Don't want to wait till the wedding.' That date put the note two weeks before he found himself standing on the steps as she drove up in her red sports car.

There were two erotic love letters—he glanced at them, knowing he should read them, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. There were formal engagement photos of Scarlett standing demurely behind her intended, her hand on his shoulder. Another showed them seated, her hand holding his, ring flashing.

He remembered that she had taken off her engagement ring before they made love. It had winked knowingly at him from the nightstand. 

He put the notes and photos back into the box, put them into an evidence bag, and joined Lewis in the hall.

"Dogs are on the way," said Lewis. "Gurdip called, he wants to go over what he's found out about the boyfriend—says you'll need to make some calls. I'll want another word with the staff." He sighed. "Find anything?"

"A few letters, photos." He handed the bag to Lewis. "No laptop."

"Bhatia's planning another SOCO run through the house. She's asked us to find out more about the boy—maybe get the name of a teacher. Said it was okay'ed by Innocent."

"I do have the name of a teacher."

"You'd best get back, then. Gurdip has a date, he says."

Hathaway gave him a disbelieving look. Gurdip was as notorious for being a workaholic as they were. 

"Julie," said Lewis, with a smile. "Dinner and a movie. Says it's her treat."

"Good for them," Hathaway quirked a small smile. 

"You might take a lesson from that. Get out once in a while. Do you good."

"Look what happened the last time I tried that." 

++++

"There's not much, I'm afraid. She left prison on a mercy plea, took her son to the US when he was two months old. Lived in Santa Monica. No job, no bills, no phone." Gurdip raised his eyebrows. "No digital footprint."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. She was living pretty far off the grid, as they say." He gave Hathaway a sympathetic look. "No vehicle records, no insurance, no public records of any kind."

"And then, suddenly there's a book."

Gurdip nodded. "I sent you a list of local schools the boy might have attended."

Julie ducked her head into Gurdip's office. "Hey, are you trying to weasel out—oh, sorry, sir." 

"Cheers." Hathaway quirked a smile as he rose. "Guess you'd best be on your way, then."

Gurdip flushed, embarrassed. "Thanks."

Hathaway was on his way to his office when he was hit in the stomach by a football. He caught it on his instep as it fell and kicked it back up to waist height to grab it.

"Been in the garage for ages. Thought you might like it." Jean Innocent smiled sympathetically. "Nice catch, by the way."

He bumped it on his knee and sent it back to her. She let it hit the ground in front of her and stopped it with her foot. "Hard to play in these shoes." She reluctantly kick-passed the ball back to him. "Any joy?"

"None." He paused. He held up the ball. "Cheers. Though I suspect an ulterior motive, Ma'am." 

She inclined her head with a smile. "Get in some practice and you can be captain next time we do a community game. I might even consent to being on your team."

Hathaway quirked a smile. He held up the ball again in a gesture of thanks and wondered what it would be like to pass around a football with a kid. His father had never, not once. James had played with the kids on the estate, remembered Scarlett as a good kicker. 

He got back to his office and called Lewis. "Innocent just gave me a football."

"Just what the lad needs, I reckon. And someone to kick it around with."

"I—" he never asked about Lewis' family life, except to inquire as to their health. "I was wondering if you ever played football with Lyn and Mark."

"Right, yeah, when I could, but not as often as I liked. Still, Mark was what, ten or so when he only wanted to play with his friends. Lyn, though, she ran me ragged. You?"

"No."

"Here's your chance then. Having a kid helps you correct the failings in your childhood."

Hathaway let the silence lengthen.

"I heard that from Hobson. She says you should know Tuesday, Wednesday on the outside. And I got the name of the boyfriend: Jake Newman. Housekeeper saw his name on a post a few months ago, nothing since. Couldn't find the letter."

"Are any of the long-time staff still in service?"

"Big clear out after his Lordship was arrested, you can imagine. Housekeeper, cook, a couple of gardeners. Cleaning help every three weeks. Feeling was that she was liquidating the rest of the estate, though it had taken a hit while she was in the states."

"And did the drug dogs turn up anything?"

"There's the mystery. They found a small LAPD evidence bag with traces in her luggage. No markings on the bag, nothing except the logo. Weird."

"Very. Why would she have an LAPD evidence bag?"

"You've the clever one with the computer. Find out. I'm heading off with Laura to dinner. We're going to 'talk'. Why is it women always want to talk?"

"Would you like me to rescue you?"

"No. Like as not, one way or the other, you'll be the topic of conversation." He huffed a laugh, and Hathaway could imagine the grin on his face as spoke. 

"I'm sure you can find something better to discuss," Hathaway's voice was resigned. Just thinking about the directions the conversation could take made him want a cigarette. He rang off and headed outside the station for a smoke.

He'd have to give up smoking if Jim was his son. Or he'd have to become a secret smoker. He watched the sparks of ash as he tapped it away, the smoke as he exhaled. How could he give this up, the feeling of a fag—oh, and there was a word that he needed to address right there. He shook his head, despising this Jake Newman. 

He went back inside. It was too early to ring up the LAPD, still dark in the States. Instead, he concentrated on the schools that Jim might have attended. All were within four miles of his house, all had websites, but only one had Mrs. Ramirez teaching a combined kindergarten and first grade class.

There was a picture of his class—a large, diverse group of forty children—huge class. How could one person teach so many children at once? Jim was in the back row, unsmiling, staring at the camera. Mrs. Ramirez stood at the side of the class, beaming. Her class had won a "Books Across America" contest. It listed the number of pages read by each student.

Jamie M. was the best reader in the class. 

Hathaway felt the beginning of a smile that he tamped down immediately. There was no evidence—yet—that this was his son. 

Despite the boy's exceptional reading ability, intelligence, height, looks, and—he could not allow himself to indulge this pointless fantasy. Even if Jim was his son, how would that work? He wasn't cut out to be a parent, had never even considered it. He'd have to take leave, get to know Jim and try to make up for the last five years, not to mention a drug dealer's influence. 

He would have to help the boy get over the horrible death of his mother. 

He thought about summer programs, real music lessons from a real teacher, caravanning—all of the things he had longed for as a boy.

He thought of teaching him guitar and chess, taking him rowing, seeing the mummies at the British Museum. Lewis playing goalie while they passed the football down the field. Jim could help them on the allotment. He thought of the three of them making dinner in his tiny kitchen—he'd have to move. A boy needed a room of his own. He was glad he hadn't given up his job when Lewis was talking about retirement.

And Lewis would help. Maybe this will be the way—no, can't think about that. But Lewis will want to help him with Jim, he's sure of that. Lewis will know what to do if the child is sick, Lewis will know what to do if Jim is bullied or has nightmares. Lewis will be the good example.

He smiled ruefully. Lewis would have to move in if he's going to take on that role. Would he want to? Not as anything more than friends, of course, since Lewis was, all evidence considered, a Yorkie and Loaded man. So, a roommate. Would he want to be with me to watch Jim go to school then off to university? 

Could see the two of us standing at the train, waving our young man off to Cambridge.

Never happen.

But he smiled at the thought. 

First things first. He would give up pints at the pub after work. So—smoking and drinking. Save a bit of money right there. Good thing too--raising a child is expensive. He was momentarily glad he had so few bad habits. 

One of those was not procrastination. He emailed Mrs. Ramirez, making the initial inquiry. Then he stepped out to get takeaway.

Another bad habit—living off takeaway during a case—but far easier to break than the others. He returned to his desk and dug into lamb vindaloo, clicking through Jamie's school website, learning more about this child who might be his. 

+++++

Lewis sat across from Laura and Jean. Laura always looked happy now that she and Robbie were over and done with—no hard feelings, they agreed. Well, there were initially, but those dissipated quickly. It was as if they'd been asking the question for years and now that the answer was "Nope" they were finally able to move on. They'd been friends for too long to let something like an ill-conceived love affair keep them apart. 

Laura was seeing Franco again. The freedom of the long distance relationship seemed to suit her.

Jean seemed happier than she had in a long time now that she was separated. "It's interesting," she said. "Laura's made it her mission to fix me up with every eligible man in Oxford and Mr. Innocent is looking better and better in comparison." 

Because Robbie didn't have to hear about all of Laura's matchmaking plans for Jean, he grinned in relief.

"Why have you suddenly gone toothy?" Hobson wanted to know.

"Happy, I guess."

She frowned at him. "Does this have to do with Hathaway possibly providing you with a surrogate grandson to fawn over?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow. Not a bad thought. Co-parenting with James? He'd be retired (again) in a year or two, be able to spend time with the little boy, work with him. He hadn’t spent as much as time as he’d liked with his own boy. Maybe this was a chance to set the universe to rights. He could see the three of them doing all the things he’d missed out on with Mark: going to cricket matches, fishing, making Lego models, building with power towels. James would want to take him to every museum and church in London, of course, but there’d be visits to The Tower to look for ghosts. Could indulge his new found passion for American comic book character action films. 

The three of them—he found himself grinning again. 

"Before you start making plans for the boy, wait till you find out if he's Hathaway's."

"Shouldn't matter," said Lewis. 

"Shouldn't, but you know it does," said Innocent. "I think it will be hard on James if that boy isn't his. You should have seen his face when I gave him that football. He was ready to tear up a field."

"If the boy isn't his, I'll take Hathaway out on the field. All right?"

"I'm going to hold you to that, Lewis."

++++

Hathaway was on his fourth operator. Jake Newman was not well known to the LAPD, but he was special for some reason, and no one seemed to know why. All they knew was that he was to be incarcerated at Chico State Prison for seven to ten years for drug trafficking and he was out in less than two months.

"Oxfordshire? I need to verify your identity. I'm sure you understand. I'll return your call in ten minutes."

Hathaway sat back and fiddled with a pen. It sounded as if they were protecting a known felon. Maybe he was in a witness protection plan—that's what they did in the States. With one in one hundred American adults incarcerated, someone had to protect the witnesses who put them there. 

He picked up the phone on the first ring. "Detective Inspector James Hathaway, Oxfordshire Police."

"Detective Hathaway, good morning. This is Agent Estaban Gutierrez, United States DEA. How ya doin'?"

"Fine, I'm looking into the whereabouts of Jake Newman," he gave what little information he had on the man and explained why they were looking for him. 

"We're all lookin' for Jake, let me tell ya. Wish I could give ya more info."

"Do you have a mug shot, any prior addresses? It seems that he was involved with a woman who was murdered over here—"

"He's no murderer."

"If you don't know Newman's whereabouts, why are you sure he isn't a murderer?"

"It's not his M.O. Listen, I don't think we can be of any assistance in this matter."

"Agent—"

"Have a good one, Inspector Hathaway."

The line went dead. 

Hathaway tapped the phone against his lip. Strange. 

It was after one in the morning. Before he shut down his system, he checked his email—nothing back from Mrs. Ramirez yet. Checked his calendar for the next day. He was between sergeants, again, and he had routine tasks piling up in the interim.

He couldn't go home yet—too much left to do.

++++

Lewis rang off. Titus Mortmaigne seemed more surprised that his half-sister's book had been published than he was about her murder. They had exchanged the occasional email, Christmas cards. Hadn't seen her or his nephew since she left England. 

He wanted to know if she was still seeing the guy who used to visit her while she was in prison.

Whoever that was.

Sure, he knew about Jamie, he said. Named after her old friend, the copper who destroyed their family. 

++++

Hathaway's arm was falling asleep—the angle was all wrong on the old armchair--but he didn't mind. He dropped the book carefully onto the floor, trying not to disturb the boy. Jim was curled up on his lap, a thumb in his mouth. His small fingers—so like James' own—clutched a scrap of blanket against his nose.

James stilled the impulse to gently pull the thumb away as his parents had done when he was young. Let the child suck his thumb as long as he likes, he thought. Maybe it'll keep him from being a smoker.

He stared at Jim's lashes, impossibly long, breathed in the smell of soap and sleep, the musk of that ratty blanket. Would it be long before they came to put Jim to bed? He sat in the back of the common room, far from the older children draped on the couch in front of the telly watching a video. 

"Jamie had a terrible night," a female caseworker had said, calling Hathaway earlier in the day. "First thing this morning he was asking after his friend Mr. Hathaway. You made quite an impression."

Hathaway had sighed, agreed to come round that afternoon. Had planned to stay no more than the hour of visitation allowed.

Had no idea why he was sitting in a chair holding a sleeping child six hours later.

He rearranged himself to be more comfortable and Jim murmured, his small hand now grabbing the blanket and a fistful of James' shirt, holding fast. Apparently James wasn't going anywhere.

"You gotta see," Jim had said, when James had arrived that afternoon. The boy dragged him into his room and slammed the door.

Jim had finished the Lego model. The entire thing.

Hathaway was dumbstruck. The box said the model was appropriate for ages 10 and up. He found himself smiling at the boy, who beamed back at him.

"Can I—" Jim stopped, stared at the floor a moment and then brightened. "May I have another one, Mr. Hathaway?"

And someone, bless them, had started reminding Jim to be polite. Hathaway nodded. "We can make more than one thing with these pieces, though."

"Cool," Jim breathed. "Can you show me?"

With that, the afternoon was gone. Dinner was institutional fish fingers, chips, mushy peas, and a chocolate cupcake because it was someone's birthday. 

"I got cupcakes at school on my birthday only we didn't have enough so we cut them. It's no big deal. We had spicy noodles for dinner and I got a boogie board." Jim pushed the peas around. "These look like slime boogers."

Hathaway privately agreed. "Do you like spicy foods?"

"Oh, yeah, me and Jake like the red sauce in the big bottle. He says it's hotter than hell."

Hathaway raised an eyebrow and nodded. "Please—"

"Yeah, I know." Jim smashed his fish finger with his fork. "Stop using bad words." His voice was an eerie sing-song imitation of the caseworker. He added the mushy peas to the fish and mashed them both together. "I need more words."

James huffed a laugh and looked away, vowing to read up on genetics. He saw so many similarities between himself and the boy. Or maybe all little boys mashed their food thinking of slime. He doubted though, that most boys would care about learning more words.

Frowning in centration, Jim prodded the mashed up concoction into a hill on his plate.

"Try 'ridiculous.' It sort of means silly or stupid, but it isn't rude. Say 'ridiculous' instead of some of the other words you like to use."

"Ri—"

"Ri-dic-ulous."

Jim giggled. "You said, 'Dick.'"

Hathaway rolled his eyes. "I did, it's part—" he smiled to himself. American slang. "If you say 'ridiculous' then you're saying a word that has a silly bit in it, but no one will know but you. It's a joke."

Jim nodded sagely. "Ri-dic-ulous."

Hathaway nodded.

Jim's eyes narrowed, speculatively. "Are there more?"

So they spent the rest of the afternoon building a passable pirate ship and discussing vocabulary. Boatwright came to check on them several times, at one point helping with suggestions for the ship's sail and coming back with a paper cut in a right triangle and three graduated rectangles. Later he returned, sitting back from the table, listening while Jim opened up to Hathaway about his home life, interceding when James had to look away.

"We went to McDonalds every day and I got all the Happy Meal toys," said Jim, choosing blue Legos for water. "It was my job. Mom gived me money and I went all by myself all the time. Once it got dark and the lady called and I got to ride in a cop car. It didn't make noise."

"Sounds exciting," interjected Boatwright before Hathaway could comment. "What happened then?"

"Jake got all pissed—" Jim's head swiveled to Hathaway. "Is there a word?"

Hathaway shook his head. He had no idea what to say, the whole idea of sending a child of five to buy fast food and then to leave him in the restaurant at night!

"Jake got all pissed off." Jim appeared to think about it. "Said goddam it why the fuck and blah blah blah. It's no big deal." He shrugged. "I said Mom said and—" he started swinging his legs under the table. 

Boatwright waited. 

James realized he was bouncing his knee and forced himself to sit still.

Jim's legs stopped suddenly. "Jake left and mom yelled and spanked me with a thing," he pointed to Boatwright's belt. "I cried and hided in the closet all the time." he glanced at Hathaway and whispered to Boatwright, "I wet my pants."

"That happens when people get very scared."

Jim nodded. "No shit."

Neither man bothered to reprimand the boy for using a bad word.

In a way, it put things into prospective.

Hathaway excused himself a bit later, checking his email via mobile, breathing deep, trying not to feel or think about what the child had been through. 

Because he knew. Simple as that.

And now James laid his cheek against the child's head, stifling a yawn, thinking about the case. Inspector Bhatia had come in that morning, left him an unofficial copy of her notes, her report, Julie's notes—it was more than he was entitled to. He felt absurdly grateful. She told him he could see the boy, encouraged him to do so, in fact: Innocent had even arranged for him to be able to take the boy out for 'sports related activities.' Bhatia invited him to observe the interviews of the staff that morning, though she hadn't asked for his opinions yet. She wanted Julie's take, first, and then they'd get the team together. It was a solid strategy. 

She was happy to have his input, she said. She hadn't had an opportunity yet to pull in the information from the original CreveCoeur case, but what she had accomplished so far was exemplary. 

And Jim was safe.

He relaxed, settling into the chair, the weight of the boy on his chest, and fell asleep. 

 

++++

Inspector Fatima Bhatia got up, closed her office door, as she did whenever she was in her office at this time of day. She sat behind her desk and calmed her mind, silently repeating the prayers.

When she finished, she made a cup of tea and opened the first series of folders about the initial Crevecoeur case. Augustus Mortmaigne's disposition and confession. Photos of the children. Interviews with the victims, many of whom were now adults.

Thirty minutes later she was weeping.

Her office door remained closed for the rest of the afternoon. 

++++  
Innocent had called in a few favors, no doubt. They were heading over to pick up Jim to take him rowing. Insisted that Lewis go along. After that incident years ago in the Mallory case, he'd been assigned Youth Training, so he had a piece of paper that said he was safe with children.

Had raised two of his own, better than any bleeding piece of paper, in his opinion. But if meant he got to spend the morning on the river in a boat with Hathaway and the lad—and get paid for it—it was on, as far as he was concerned.

He imagined this being a regular thing, the three of them heading out for the river or the allotment after breakfast on the weekends. He and James would take turns making up lunches—he wasn't going to make the little lad eat salads and veg all the time. Boys need crisps and biscuits. They'd probably argue about it now and again, but they'd never go to bed mad—

Oi. Where the devil did that come from? Best not to go down that road. 

Now that he has a son, James will look for a nice woman to settle down with. Child needs a mother.

No, a child needs loving parents. I could be one of those parents. I would, too, if he wanted. Wouldn't have to be romantic like that. Could be platonic, yeah. Two friends and a lad—sounds like an American comedy. Would that be enough for James? For me? Better than nothing for both of us, I reckon.

Lewis sighed. And Hathaway had it bad, no question. It was endearing, it was. The man was completely smitten by this little kid who looked like him and wanted so desperately to please him.

Hathaway had this expression of pride and happiness on his face that wrenched at Lewis' insides. All the way over to the carer it was 'Jim's the best reader in his class,' and 'He won a ribbon for drawing.' The last being: “He’s so bright despite all that he’s been through.”

Apple doesn’t fall from the tree, thought Lewis.

After he had made the appropriate polite noises, Lewis had asked: 

"Find out anything about Jake Newman?" 

"The DEA says that he is not a murderer. Not his M.O."

"The DEA. That's the big time, not common garden variety drug dealer."

Hathaway nodded. "Yeah. Everyone was reluctant give out information. No photo included with the arrest record—I was told it was a system error before I was cut off."

"Think he might be in a witness protection program?"

Hathaway nodded and continued. "Most of what I learned today was from Mrs. Ramirez, Jim's teacher."

"Unusual, that, not being able to get any cooperation from law enforcement."

"It is. But Jake Newman, apparently, is an unusual fellow for a drug dealer. Mrs. Ramirez says that he appeared at a parent teacher conference once in Scarlett's place. Here, read it for yourself."

Lewis read aloud: "'Sorry to hear about Jamie's mom. I never met her. Her boyfriend Jake Newman came to parent teacher conferences. We don't get a lot of dads coming, so that's why I remember.' This is a teacher?"

"Go on."

"'Mr. Newman was a nice guy. Don't let the tats and piercings fool you. He doesn't swear as much like other dads and Jamie liked him.' Surprised you didn't take a red pen to this."

"Keep reading."

"'He acted weird when other people were around. It confused Jamie and made him afraid. About mid year, Mr. Newman got into trouble over drugs and went to jail. Big surprise. Jamie and his mom left a couple a weeks later. Two days ago Mr. Newman came to my house asking if I knew where Jamie and his mom were. He was kinda mad.'"

"Aww, bloody hell." Lewis rattled the paper. He continued reading. " 'I'm glad that Jamie is safe and I'm sorry his mom is dead. If Mr. Newman comes again I'll tell him Jamie's okay. Tell Jamie that it was a funny trick he left in the school garden.' Wonder what that's all about."

Hathaway glanced at him as he drove. "I was worried that Newman might show up at Mrs. Ramirez' house again, so I contacted the LAPD--again. The detective I spoke with this time was as puzzled as I was, but more helpful. Jake Newman appeared in LA five years ago—he was a man without a past. A minor drug dealer who tried, unsuccessfully for years, to become a drug lord. Six months ago he surged into the spotlight—he was charged, arrested, sentenced to seven to ten years. He was incarcerated for two months and then disappeared as if he never existed."

"What?!"

"Poof. Like Keyser Soze."

"Any ideas?"

"None of them helpful."

+++++  
At the lad's insistence, Lewis had shaken hands with him again when they arrived at the social services facility. It gave him something to do while Hathaway was filling out paperwork. While he was thankful he had taught him to do so, he wished at the same time that he hadn't. The lad would be eaten alive if he tried to shake hands with other kids at school.

Hathaway was wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans, only his face and forearms exposed to the sun. Jim wore long shorts, ratty trainers, and another long t-shirt: US Marine Corps. He bounced up and down on his toes as he waited. 

"Do you have sunscreen on, Jim?" Hathaway held out the tube to the boy, who nodded. "You?" He offered it to Lewis.

"I do." Lewis' said with asperity. "Ta." He liked being in a boat well enough, but he liked having a fishing pole in his hands, not an oar. He took off his jacket, letting the sun warm his arms and back. Need to get a better hat if we keep this up.

They got into the boat, Hathaway and Jim sharing a planked seat. The only problem was getting Jim to wear a life vest. 

"But I can swim!"

"It's the rule." Lewis sighed, resigned. They should have explained this on the way over. 

"We can't go if you don't wear a life vest," said Hathaway, in a reasonable voice.

Lewis winced. He knew what was coming, had it happen to himself too many times to count. Here it comes, he thought, watching the boy's eyes get narrow and his mouth become the 'You can't make me' frown. Kids are the same the world over.

"I'm not wearing a baby life vest."

"Then we're not going. Out of the boat." Hathaway was firm. He sat up straighter, matter of fact, hand on his thigh as if he was ready to put the kid over it and give him a good whack. He stood up in the boat. As he did so, his face took on a pained, uncertain, frown, a line forming between his eyebrows.

Lewis stared. Who was this stern man? Where was mild-mannered James Hathaway? He was acting like he'd just read a spare-the-rod parenting handbook. "Did you talk with Mr. Boatwright before we left? About—this?" asked Lewis, quietly.

Hathaway's eyes widened, taken aback, as if he was being accused of cheating because he hadn't done his own research and footnotes. He almost looked panicked.

Lewis gave an infinitesimal shake of his head and pursed his lips, their wordless code for 'Wrong tactic.' His gaze strayed to Jim.

The boy's eyes narrowed into slits. His body tensed. Jim was up to something. He glanced at James and made his move.

Jim deliberately pitched his weight heavily to one side of the boat. James gave a reflexive pitch hard to the other with more force, throwing the kid off balance and half over the side. James righted the boat with practiced ease, an expression of horror on his face. 

Attaway, Hathaway, Lewis thought sourly. He was going to have to have a long talk with James about parenting. 

"Shit!" Jim yelled, dropping to the bottom of the boat.

"Wearing a life vest keeps you safe," intoned Hathaway, sitting down, clearly shaken by what had happened. 

The boy nodded and slipped on the vest, only mildly belligerent. "I didn't fall in the water."

"I know. I wouldn't have let you, Jim. I'm sorry if that scared you." He seemed to be picking his words with care, as if traveling through a verbal minefield. "It's my job to keep people safe. I have to make sure people follow the rules."

Lewis watched the dynamic between the two of them. Neither able to trust the other but both of them wanting to. 

"It's only a little river," said Jim. 

"This is the Thames. It runs through London to the sea."

"I swim in the ocean. There are waves," the boy emphasized, as if these adults were particularly stupid. "I got a boogie board."

"Can you tread water for five minutes?" James smiled slightly, and rephrased: "Can you keep your head above water for a few minutes?"

The boy nodded solemnly. "Jake took me to swim class once."

Hathaway nodded back. "Sounds like Jake looked out for you."

"Sometimes. Then he left." 

"Must have been hard," Lewis said quietly, pushing off from the dock.

"Totally sucked. Mom cried a lot," Jim got a gleam in his eye. "I got back at him."

"How?"

"He told me about plants and how they have seeds and stuff? He got real important plants. So I took the seeds to school? I put them in Mrs. Ramirez' garden. I left a note.”

"Mrs. Ramirez said to tell you that your garden trick was 'funny'. Was it funny or was it mean?"

"Kinda mean," he looked chagrinned. "You called my teacher?"

Hathaway shrugged. "I'm a police officer."

"But they're only drugs when they get big! Jake said so! Do I have to go to jail, too? I don't want to go to jail! There are bad guys there—Jake didn't want to go there. He was scared of going there."

"Jim," Lewis tried to keep his voice nonchalant. "Did Jake act differently when his friends were around?"

"Duh. Like he would get all tough and sh—stuff. Mom told him to stop it once and he pushed her down inna chair and it hit the wall. Then this guy wanted to hit her and Jake wouldn't let him and there was a fight and I socked the guy on the back and he laughed at me,” he said in a rush. He took a deep breath. “Jake bleeded on the rug. No big deal.”

"You were trying to protect your mum." Hathaway's voice was strangled; he wasn't looking at the boy at all.

What did you see as a child, James? Lewis watched his friend put on that familiar 'I'm fine' mask.

"What was it like when Jake's friends weren't around?"

Jim grinned. "It was cool. One time we got snow cones at the beach. One time we got roller blades and skated. One time me and Jake used the computers at the big library."

"Jim, you said you read your mom's book on her laptop. Do you know where her laptop is?"

His eyes widened. "Yeah, the assholes at the airport took it."

"Please don't use that word."

"Mom used that word. She said, 'You assholes have no right to take my goddamn laptop!' She was so pissed."

Lewis saw Hathaway's wince and asked, "Was this as you were leaving to come here or did it happen once you got here?"

"When we were leaving. And they took our water bottles, too. They took all our stuff."

"Did your mother say why she wanted to come back to England?"

Jim's face suddenly got red and his eyes teared up. "Jake was gone. My mom's gone. She's not coming back as anything."

Hathaway slung an arm around the boy's shoulders. "It'll be okay."

"How do you know?" said Jim, defiantly. 

Silence.

"He's a cop. We know things," said Lewis finally, matter of fact. Wish he hadn't told the lad it would be okay—it won't be. Not for a long time. This is a case, the boy is a victim, and James is far too close to this. Might have to talk with Innocent about that. Especially if this little lad is his son. 

Two peas in pod, they were.

Jim settled against Hathaway, defeated. Both of them looked so morose it was almost comical. Lewis huffed a sigh and moved forward to take the oars.

"I know just the thing to cheer up you lot. I'm gonna row. Jim, you watch Mr. Hathaway and let's see how long it takes before he grabs the oars away from me." Lewis awkwardly skimmed the river with an oar and sent a splash of water into the boat.

Hathaway's mouth curled into the beginnings of a crooked smile. 

"Yeah, Jim, I haven't rowed in a long while," Lewis dug into the water and pulled, popping the oars so that all of them got a bit wet. 

Hathaway smirked at Lewis. 

Jim grinned. "Do it again."

Lewis dug in with the oars.

"Don't—" Hathaway lunged for an oar and wound up face down in Lewis' lap as river water rained down on them. Drenched, his face inches from Lewis', he laughed, "I promise I'm going to get you for this." His hands were on Lewis' thighs as he pushed himself back.

"Oh, you are, are you?" Lewis skipped the surface with the other oar, sending a shower over Hathaway, the boy, and himself. 

For just a moment, everyone was laughing and smiling and there was a rainbow in the arc of water before it hit the boat.

+++++

 

After they dropped off Jim, though, Lewis was pensive. "So Boatwright told you to be firm with the boy? He say why?"

Hathaway cast his mind back. "He didn't give a reason."

"Didn't strike you as odd? I think the lad needs a gentle hand, especially now."

Hathaway considered this. "I thought so too." He pursed his lips. "I think I'd be the type of parent who studies child psychology books and makes a mess of the kid."

"I see you more as a spoiler."

Hathaway gave him a dubious look.

"Legos? A book? Ice cream and a boat ride?"

Hathaway snorted. "The ice cream and boat ride were for you."

"See? You're a spoiler," Lewis grinned, looking out the side window.

++++

Late afternoon on his day off, Hathaway should have been at home putting aloe vera on his sunburn from the boat ride. Instead, he was at the station, going through paperwork. 

James sighed, tapping a pen against the desk. He was getting nowhere trying to track down Jake Newman. The man was a cipher, a will o' the wisp, a ghost. No, a demon. James tossed the pen down in disgust, picked up his cigarettes and went outside for a smoke.

The sun, low in the sky, cast a golden glow over the building. He lit up, enjoying the moment.

"Smoking is a filthy habit," said a deep voice behind him.

He turned. The speaker was tall, blond hair and beard cropped close to his head, wearing a tight black concert t-shirt that showed off intricate tattoo sleeves on both arms. He sported a line of silver piercings up one ear, multiple rings on his fingers. His tight jeans were tucked into dusty motorcycle boots, he held a worn black leather jacket over his arm. He moved confidently, invading Hathaway's personal space.

"I hear you're looking for me." The blue eyes were cold.

"If you're Jake Newman, then yes." Hathaway returned the stare. Common variety criminal with a touch of something else. Whatever he might be, Jake Newman had intelligent eyes. Hathaway felt as if he was being examined and judged. He didn't like it.

Jake Newman gave a mock bow. "Aren't you going to invite me into your office?"

Hathaway took another drag on his cigarette, playing for time. He had nothing on Newman—no outstanding warrants, no reason to arrest and hold him except for the fact that he had exposed a child to a dangerous lifestyle. Maybe that was the norm in the US. 

Still.

Newman waited, as if ready to pounce. 

Hathaway ground out his cigarette and tossed it in the bin. He gestured to the door and followed Newman inside. 

Newman stopped at the metal detector inside the door and without being asked, emptied his pockets of a small arsenal. Large pocketknife, two phones, wallet, small blade from inside his boot, metal razor blade on a breakaway chain around his neck. He walked through the metal detector and gathered his personal belongings—with the exception of the weapons, which Hathaway had put in a bag.

"Do you want a receipt for these?" Hathaway asked.

"No. I trust you to give them back. May we talk in your office rather than in Interrogation?" 

"We call it an interview room."

"Does having a nicer name help?"

Hathaway led him to his office, mindful of the looks he was getting as they walked down the hall. Despite the differences in attire, it was hard to miss the fact that he and Newman looked very much alike. 

James Hathaway had a bad feeling about this. He pulled forward an empty chair and set it in front of his desk.

Jake Newman took a seat, pulled a card from the inside of his boot, and handed it to Hathaway.

"Before we begin, you'll want to call that number, Inspector Hathaway, from your office line. They'll give you further instructions." Newman settled back, crossed his legs, and took in his surroundings.

Hathaway raised his eyebrows rather than responding directly. He punched in the number and got a tone in answer, a series of clicks, and then a human voice asking him to punch in an access code. Hathaway punched in the numbers from the card and waited. Minutes passed—the line seemed dead. He hung up the phone, gathered his thoughts and was about to speak when there was a tap at the door.

Jean Innocent entered, several folders in her hands. "Inspector Hathaway, you are directed to provide every courtesy to Special Agent Jake Newman, of the US DEA." She smiled thinly at Newman. "He's to have access to all materials related to the Mortmaigne case to support a joint ongoing investigation with Interpol." She nodded at James and left.

Newman smirked.

Hathaway sighed. He had to hear it from the man himself. "You were undercover."

"More than that. I was embedded. For years. And I gotta say, I've seen some serious crap go down in my day, but that's a mighty shitty thing to do, trying to control a kid by rocking the boat."

Hathaway tilted his head. "You were watching."

"Of course I was watching. My son was in that boat."

"Jim is your son."

"Yes, Jamie is my son. You—oh." He stared at Hathaway, realization dawning. "You're that James. Scarlett's childhood—friend. She talked about you more than I liked."

"I'm sorry for your loss…" Hathaway's voice trailed off; he had too many questions. "Scarlett's killer confessed at the scene and is in custody."

"Good," it was a whisper. "Got on a plane when I heard—I read about it on the internet. Her publisher is using her death as publicity. Makes me sick. I asked Scarlett not to write that goddamn book. She said it was therapeutic." His voice was soft, cold. "I came for Jamie."

"The request has to be placed through social services. They'll need a paternity test. He's still a principle witness in an on-going investigation." Hathaway said, impassively, trying to cover up the emotions that surged within him. Jake Newman believed himself to be Jim's father. 

Newman acknowledged all this with a slight nod. "You know he'll never be put on the stand, though. Why the posturing, Inspector?"

"How did you meet Scarlett?" Hathaway asked, trying to give himself time to think.

"I arranged to fix her sports car. I was scoping out her fiancé, Tarek Shimali, for trafficking. He comes from a suspiciously wealthy family with a lot of money flowing into accounts worldwide. Shipping magnate—perfect set up. Shimali senior wanted the prestige of a title and Lord Mortmaigne was, to put it bluntly, whoring his daughter out to recover from his poor investments. I didn't like it." 

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "But I did like her. Very much. She liked me. We got together. I used to leave her these notes." He smiled to himself. "And then she was engaged. We said our goodbyes two weeks before her big engagement party. And then all that shit went down with the murder."

He stared at Hathaway appraisingly. "Glad you got her dad. He was a waste of skin and one sick fuck. That was good police work."

Hathaway accepted the compliment with a slight nod. "Did you get her fiancé?"

Newman's mouth crooked up in a smile. "Yeah, about a month later he got careless. He was just the tip of the proverbial dung heap, though. Of course she was already in prison." He cleared his throat, settling back in his chair. "I went to visit to give her the news, found out she was pregnant. After that, I started working on getting her out."

He looked at Hathaway as if he was wondering where he had been during that time.

"I didn't know." Hathaway said, softly.

"You were her friend and you never even went to see her, man."

"I had arrested her as an accessory to murder. Not the best way to renew a friendship," said Hathaway.

Newman raised his eyebrows. "True dat." He stared at Hathaway, as if he was evaluating strategies, how to proceed.

Hathaway assessed Newman carefully in return. For a man who was supposed to be a drug dealer, he had uncommonly clean hands and nails. Not manicured, but clean. A small chink in his portrayal. Next, he paid attention to the content of the tattoos that covered his arms. They were exquisite. Rather than the Ed Hardy school of skulls, hearts and roses, there was a biomechanical realism on one arm that appeared to cover a large scar, the other arm was a blend of tribal pricking and water-based fantasy creatures. Newman flexed the arm with the biomechanical design, making it jump: 'Dulce bellum inexpertis' marched along the straight edge of the drawing.

"No gang or prison tats, if you were wondering," Newman said.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

Newman raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Both. She said you were going to be a priest. So you'd know the Latin. Pindaros. 'War is sweet for those who haven't experienced it.' We've both seen our share of death and misfortune, Inspector Hathaway. I think both of us want to do our bit to reign it in."

Hathaway nodded, accepting the conciliatory tactic, thinking that he would have approached this situation in the same way. It was like a grossly distorted mirror, seeing this other man who looked like himself and at the same time was alien. He suspected Newman was feeling the same way. 

"How is Jamie taking her death?"

"He saw her with a knife sticking out of her throat. He ran away, believing that she would come back as a demon." Hathaway tried to keep the statement from being an accusation. "He talks about you a great deal. What you do, what you like. It's been—interesting."

"I had a role to play."

"Did Scarlett know?"

"No. She knew I was in law enforcement in the military. I thought that's what she was referring to in the book. But I couldn't tell her, man. She would have been in danger. These were very bad men. Still are."

"She lived with a very bad man for decades. Lord Mortmaigne was—controlling. Evil." Hathaway observed. "You didn't think she could handle the truth of what you did?"

"No. I knew her better than you did. After prison, after Jamie--she was fragile. Very fragile."

"Yet Jim says you pushed her around."

"Jamie," Newman emphasized the name, "Saw a lot of things he shouldn't have seen. I played a role. To keep them safe, I played it very well."

"So well that when you were arrested she returned here."

"Yeah. I loved her too much to stop her. She deserved better. My boy deserved better."

"Yet here you are and Scarlett's dead." Hathaway's eyes flickered to the folders. "Scarlett had a laptop?"

"Yes, it was confiscated and retained by the DEA under orders."

"Jim said he read his mother's book on it."

"Jamie read portions of his mother's book, mostly about the farm. There weren't any pictures, so I showed him photos we'd taken as part of our surveillance. Didn't want Scarlett to know that I had them, so I told him it was a secret."

"Good to know." Hathaway breathed a sigh of relief. "His psychological evaluation contains information that you may find disturbing. Did you know that Scarlett beat Jim with a belt?"

"Just the one—"

"Twice with a belt, twice with a child's toy jump rope. With sufficient force, recently, to bruise the skin. One of the estate staff planned to report it, never did." Hathaway folded his hands on his desk to keep them from reaching out to grab this man who sat in front of him, stony faced.

"No. Did not know that." Newman steeled himself, huffed angrily, and then stared at the floor, neck flushed. He cleared his throat. "Yes, Jamie was a victim in a war that shouldn't have to be fought.”

His leg bounced nervously. “You assumed, didn't you, that the trafficking was drugs. So what's a little heroin? It was, yeah, and it was people. Girls and boys brought up from Central America into the US and sold into the sex trade and worse. You may have heard that in the US we send them back to their villages? A lot of those kids are escaping the drug cartels in their own countries only to arrive in a shitstorm in the US. We have no place to put them until a ‘distant relative’ shows up and takes them off our hands with us no more the wiser. And then—what happens to those kids makes them want to die, comprende? So when I say I was tracking bad guys, Inspector, I didn't mean your garden variety dealer or murderer." 

He leaned forward, head in his hands, thumbs at his temples, and then dropped his hands in his lap. He met Hathaway's eyes. "I believe that Scarlett's murder may have been planned deliberately."

"You believe she was executed in retaliation for your work?" If that was the case, the additional drugs in Scarlett's system might make sense. Hathaway picked up his phone.

Newman's eyes narrowed. "So I might be right." He reached for the folders and thumbed through them to find the autopsy report. "Are you calling the place where they're holding Jamie?"

Hathaway nodded, distracted. "Yes, Mr. Boatwright, please."

Newman looked up from the folder. "Boatwright? Michael Boatwright? American? Brown, brown, six two, medium build?" He rose, grabbing his coat. 

Hathaway's heart pounded, listening to the case worker on the phone. "When? They're overdue? Have him call Inspector Hathaway. Not answering his mobile? No—we didn't. Thanks." He grabbed the files still on his desk, his coat, and headed for the door. "He told the staff that he was taking Jim to another facility. They left after lunch. Haven't been able to raise him." As they strode quickly down the hall, Newman filled Hathaway in.

Michael Boatwright was a frequent visitor while Scarlett was in prison in England. Jake believed that he was a reporter, had done a cursory background check, a matter of routine. At the time Boatwright wasn't with social services, wasn't with any counseling agency, wasn't anything but a person who showed up from time to time on the prison's visitor roster. Scarlett said she didn't know him before her incarceration, said he had become a friend. Some people go out of their way to visit prisoners, she said. He was very kind and understanding, she said. I have a right to my privacy, she said. 

He left it at that, keeping it in the back of his mind. Boatwright. Had seen the odd 'how are you?' email from the guy on her laptop once in a while after she moved to the States. He dismissed it because Boatwright was in England. 

Too damn much of a coincidence that Boatwright would be the guy in charge of counseling Jamie, though.

Hathaway punched in Innocent's number as he got in the car, explaining the situation as he tried to drive, narrowly missing a student on a bicycle. He reluctantly handed his mobile to Newman so he could concentrate on getting them there in one piece without injuring someone else in the process. Newman finished the call with a request for backup and additional info on Boatwright's employment history and background.

James' hands were shaking. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, then relaxed, willing himself to calm down. His heart was pounding. He had a bad feeling about this. 

"I appreciate how seriously you're treating this, Inspector," said Newman, handing back the mobile. "Could be nothing, but it's got me by the short hairs. I don't believe in coincidence."

Hathaway took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. "Are you certain that Jim is your son?"

"Y-e-a-h." said Newman, drawing it out. "Pretty sure he's not Shimali's kid given the guy's Lebanese and gay to boot." His eyes narrowed as he looked at Hathaway. "Why?" 

Hathaway pursed his lips.

"Wait just a fucking minute," said the agent, reading between the lines. "Jamie." Newman stared out the window. "Jamie? Christ. Are you saying you and Scarlett? When?"

"It doesn't matter—"

"It does if you want to get out of this car under your own power, man." Newman leaned forward, staring at Hathaway. "Had to be after we broke up. She had a casual view of morality—"

"Really?"

"Yeah, she was--you know."

"No, I guess I don't."

"Look, she got around. She was no innocent. Was married at seventeen."

"It was annulled."

Newman blew a raspberry. "She told the guy she was pregnant. She wasn't. She wanted to get away from her damn family." 

Hathaway heaved a sigh. She had told him she was on the pill. He'd never given it another thought. Told him her marriage had been annulled because it was never consummated. He'd been a consummate idiot, that's what he was right enough, to believe her.

And it wasn't her fault entirely because he wanted so much to save her, protect her. 

Look how well that worked out.

Newman was staring at him. 

He reddened, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from admitting how poor a decision he'd made.

"Jesus, before her engagement party?" said Newman, incredulous. "So that was you. Had to be. In her book. You were in the middle of an investigation and you—shit. That is so fucked, man. So fucked." He shook his head. Stared out the window. "She said you were 'honorable.' That's your idea of honor, man? And you think he's your son. Shit." 

Anger poured off Newman, making his knee bounce. His jaw worked. He took a deep breath. 

Hathaway did the same. He reined in his feelings, groping for control. 

"I thought the investigation was over. I didn't know any of it until I read her book. She named him James," Hathaway said quietly. "The timing. His appearance." 

"My middle name is James," said Newman. He tilted his head, scrutinizing Hathaway. "Okay. Granted, we have similar builds, coloring. Hell, I can see it. Jesus H. Christ. You think?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus H. Christ," he repeated, staring at Hathaway. "You do a paternity test?"

Hathaway nodded. "Should have the results in a day or two."

"Save you the trouble if you know your blood type. It's not 100% accurate, but if you have a blood type other than B, you couldn't be his father. Your pathologist could do the test in the morning, we'd know immediately."

Hathaway didn't say a word. He knew his blood type, knew what this meant. He sighed. "We have to wait for the DNA results."

"Shit." Newman squirmed in the seat. "Your Super said she'd send back up. You got a siren?"

"No."

Newman looked out the window, knee bouncing. "He's not your kid. Can't be." 

"Doesn't matter."

Newman huffed a sigh. Nodded. "True dat." He pulled out his mobile and made arrangements to delay and notify if Boatwright tried to leave the country. 

"We don't know that Boatwright's committed any crime," said Hathaway.

"Better safe than sorry."

Hathaway nodded and pushed beyond the speed limit. 

+++++

"Yes, it is a little irregular," Helen admitted. "But he's authorized."

"He's not answering his mobile and he's overdue. Did he take any other child?" Hathaway asked. Another police car pulled up, blue light flashing in the growing darkness. They were standing in front of the house social services used. Children inside were looking out through the window blinds, hurriedly snapped shut by a caseworker.

"No, but—" Helen wrung her hands. "Michael's been here for two years. If he was a—" she quickly glanced around, then spoke quietly, "—a sick predator, it would have shown up on his background check. He would have acted on it by now."

"He's a different kind of sick fucking predator." Newman spun on his heel, mobile in his hand, apparently talking with someone. "No, shit, I don't know where the fuck he is—" he stormed past Hathaway, away from the knot of officers.

"Now I know where Jim got his colorful vocabulary," said Lewis, at Hathaway's shoulder. "Aside from that—you two are spitting image of each other. Separated at birth. Thinks he’s the dad, does he?" He rubbed his earlobe. "Innocent's going to want this managed before the media gets here. You two should clear out. Bhatia's on her way. Gurdip's going over CCTV trying to track the car."

"We're staying on this," Newman put away his mobile, looking to James for confirmation. James nodded.

Julie came out of the house. "The toys are still there. Looks like they took some clothes. The blanket's gone."

"I need to see the scene." Newman made for the door. 

Julie took his arm. "Sorry, sir."

"We'll both go," Hathaway said. He included Lewis in his glance. 

"We'll all go, sir," Julie asserted, meeting the eyes of each of the men in turn. "Gentlemen?"

Everything in the boy's room looked the same—the bed was neatly made, the book left beside the Legos. 

"He was building a ship," Newman marveled. 

"No, he built a pirate ship. It was finished," Hathaway began. Now there was only the hull of the ship and billows of blue Legos. It looked like the boat they had hired the day before.

Lewis pointed to a tiny configuration of four orange Legos. "Could they have gone by water? That looks like a lifejacket."

Hathaway turned, already moving out of the room, and said to Julie: "Sergeant, would you please check motor boat rentals, then contact Thames Division to put out an advisory?"

"Helicopters?" said Newman, following him out of the house. He got into the car, sitting in the front next to Hathaway. "It's what, ninety miles? So, six maybe eight hours to travel the entire distance by speed boat?" 

"Eight knot limit. Ten, twelve hours more like with locks, river traffic. Varies." 

"Need approval for air surveillance unless we have evidence," said Lewis, getting into the backseat of the car. He had out his mobile. "Where're we headed?"

"Abington. If they rented a boat out of Oxford, they'd be past the Sandford Lock by now."

Newman pulled up a map of the River Thames locks on his mobile. "Shit, there's no way on here to know the river travel time between locks."

"Try me." Hathaway's mouth thinned. "It's—" he puffed out his cheeks. "I used to row. For Cambridge."

"Hunh. Okay." Newman grinned. "Shit, I used to crew regattas. For Qualcomm." 

"Well, we'd better hope the lad's in a boat," said Lewis from the back seat sarcastically. "Checkpoints on the roads? Buses and trains?"

"Yeah, your Chief Super's getting the word out on land and sea, just wish we had an eye in the sky," said Newman. "Look, Inspector, if Boatwright has Jamie, it's—he's gonna wanna take his time."

"Why's that?"

As Newman explained, Hathaway sped up.

"You're sure that Boatwright works for Scarlett's fiance's family? Long time to carry a grudge, isn't it?" Lewis considered. "Doesn't sit right. Timing's off."

"Timing," Hathaway said in a clipped tone. "We thought Scarlett returned to the UK because you went to prison. Why, after six years, did your undercover career suddenly land you in prison?"

"Finally got enough evidence on the piece of shit bringing kids into San Diego and up into L.A. and I went with it." He shook his head. "I think I could have spent another ten years trying to track all that shit through the sewers and I still wouldn't have gotten it all." He chewed on a thumb, looking out the window.

Hathaway looked in the rear-view mirror and met Lewis' eyes. The answer was obvious to them, but perhaps that was because they hadn't lived it. 

"So you had a sudden break in your case," Hathaway ventured.

Newman's hand dropped to his lap. "Yeah. And it was time to get out, man. After Scarlett left Jamie at Mickey D's, that was it. I was so fucking mad at her, at myself, the situation, and, then…" his voice trailed off. He was silent for several minutes. Then he stiffened and slammed a fist on the dashboard. "Fuck! I was set up! That's why the case broke. Goddam, motherfucking—Jesus, how could I have been so fucking stupid!"

"You wanted it to end. Understandable," said Lewis. "So what is Boatwright in all this, then? Is he part of the fiance's family's revenge or something else?" 

"Five months after you go to prison, Scarlett is back in the UK with a book. Boatwright is here, waiting. Has been, for two years."

"Working with kids. Jesus, I feel sick."

"Don't throw up in my car," said Hathaway. The car's tires squealed as they took the corner. "Any word on the boat rental?"

"Point." Lewis smiled slightly. "Out of Folly Bridge. They remembered because the lad insisted on seeing if they had a life vest. MPU is looking for a 18 foot day cruiser."

"Good." Hathaway turned slightly, to glance in the backseat. "About the life vest." He faced forward again. "Jim said he could swim."

"A little. He's water safe, good at holding his breath and floating. How cold's the water this time of year?"

"Cold, it wouldn't be pleasant. If—" Hathaway took a breath and blew it out, hard. "If Boatwright was going to take his time with Jim—Jamie—what would that mean?"

"If you don't want me to throw up in your car, don't ask me that." Newman was silent for a minute. "Christ, if he worked in social services for the last two years, he may have taken other kids in the interim. That gives us probable cause."

"I'm on it," said Lewis, getting on his mobile.

"If there had been any indication that he was taking advantage of children in his capacity as a social services worker, it would have come to light before this. Too many checks and balances," said Hathaway.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," said Lewis. "I want an eye in the sky too and I'm not waiting for 'probable cause' when it's a child. And I think the Yard would agree with me.”

"Lewis, you're a man after my own heart," said Newman.

The occasional set of headlights passed in the darkness. Hathaway put down his window feeling claustrophobic in the heavy atmosphere of the car. Newman got on his mobile again, laying out his argument to get air support with the caveat that they knew Jamie was on the River, that he was in danger, and that this was related to international trafficking. 

Hathaway could overhear the call being transferred up the chain. His hands were sweating. If they missed the boy at Abington, it would become harder to find him because there were more places to anchor a small boat as they moved downstream. Simple matter then to anchor, disembark, steal a car.

Newman was on hold.

"Would you say that Jim—Jamie—is overly trusting? Would he balk if he saw someone break into a car?"

Newman shook his head. "Nope. He's seen a car being hotwired. Even rode in one."

"Nice to know his education is complete," Hathaway bit out angrily.

"Look, you self-righteous prick—"

"Stop," Lewis' voice cut into the argument. "Not having this."

Newman grumbled, continued to wait on hold. "Fuck," he muttered. A voice could be heard on the mobile. "Yeah? Okay, wait, not Abingdon. You want us to head for Cleeve Lock. You're heading upriver with helicopters. MPU cruisers are already on the stretch of river upstream from Boulter's Lock to Sonning. Local PD--yeah." He listened for a minute, and then relayed: "Another 'copter out from Reading heading upstream as soon as the fog lifts."

"So no coverage yet upriver of Cleeve Lock?"

Newman shook his head. "Right. Okay, yeah, thanks." He opened a web browser. "Looks like everything downriver of Reading is covered."

"If they stop at Wallingford, short hop to Cholsey, the train and into Paddington, from there to Heathrow or transfer to King's Cross for the Eurostar," said Lewis.

Hathaway sighed and accelerated. "He can't go faster than 8 knots per hour without drawing attention. He could switch boats, remain on the river, and—is there the possibility he's taking Jim—Jamie—to meet someone?"

"God, I hope not. But, yeah, possible. Hell, anything's possible. He could moor the boat, boost a car, get on what passes for a fucking freeway here and be gone like that. Or, more likely, get on a train. Yeah, if I was taking a kid on an exciting trip, I'd pick a train."

"Cholsey, then. Trains run twice an hour into Paddington." 

++++

"No, Inspector, we didn't know to stop him. I just—he was so cute, that's why I remember him. He was wearing a life vest. Wouldn't take it off. His dad was having none of it, though. It's over there." She smiled, and pointed. "Probably left and hour and half ago, now."

Hathaway picked up the orange life vest with a resigned sigh and then quirked a smile. On the bottom corner was a crude line drawing of what looked to be a bear wearing a hat.

"They're going to Paddington."

Newman beamed. 

"How does that help us?" Lewis wanted to know, as he got back in the car. "We know they're going to Paddington. It's the only place they can go."

"He'll leave another clue," said Hathaway. "I don't think Boatwright knew he was this smart."

"And I'll bet he sure as hell doesn't know that Jamie can read and write," grinned Newman.

“Aw, bloody hell, listen to the two of you. Can’t both of you been there to take credit for giving the lad brains. Must have gotten them from his mother.” Lewis pursed his lips, exasperated.

Newman rolled his eyes and smiled, looking chagrinned. Hathaway sighed. Lewis was right. As usual. He made an illegal turn and tore out of the car park in pursuit.

"Ma'am? We need the coverage at Paddington to make sure they don't go on to Heathrow—" Lewis held his mobile awkwardly, holding a transit map in his other hand.

"Hi, yeah, we know the suspect and the child boarded a train and are headed to Paddington," Newman was saying into his mobile. "So no need for the 'copters any longer. Well, I'm sorry, I couldn't read the kidnapper's mind, okay? Jesus. Yeah. Thanks. Yeah, sorry for being an asshole, it's just—it's a kid, okay? Thanks." Newman rubbed his close cropped beard. "Wish I could say, 'It's my kid,' maybe that would get a more sympathetic response."

"Jim—Jamie—"

"Jamie. His name is Jamie. It's a kinda gay name, but—"

"Funny, that's exactly what Jim said. Oh, wait, it isn't funny at all. I wish people wouldn't use the term 'gay' as a pejorative," muttered Hathaway. 

"Sorry, no offense," Newman said, automatically. "Why do you keep calling him Jim anyway?"

"He said he wanted to be called 'Jim.'"

"Hunh. Interesting."

"He also said he didn't have a father."

Newman took a deep breath, let it out very slowly. "Look, I—don't even know if Scarlett knew whose kid he was given what you've told me. Jesus. She might have thought he was yours. When I read that part of the book, I thought she was talking about me." He quirked a wolfish grin. "Sure as hell sounded like me. Could've been you, I guess. You don't strike me as 'wicked' though. Maybe she was trying to be funny, since you were going to be a priest and all. Could be her memories were mashed up and distorted.”

"The autopsy showed significant narcotics in her system prior to the stabbing. Was she in the habit of taking medication for pain?"

Newman snorted. "I think Jamie was three when she said she threw out her back. So maybe for the last two years. And I was supposed to be a drug dealer, so she had access to pot, pills."

"But Jim—Jamie—never had access to anything, did he?"

"No, and I made damn sure of that. You have no fucking idea how hard it is to pretend to be something you're not, you know? Living a lie sucks the soul of out you." 

Hathaway took a deep slow breath. Right. I have absolutely no fucking idea what living with lies is like. None whatsoever, he thought, sourly.

"So, Scarlett was taking narcotics for two years. Which is about the time Boatwright started working in social services here in the UK."

Lewis piped up from the backseat. "What's the connection, if any? Wait, give me a second here." He opened one of the files. "In addition to trafficking in heroine, what other kinds of drugs are we talking about here? Dilaudid? Oxycontin?"

"Yeah, Vicodin, um, hydrocodone. What's the doctor's name?"

Lewis shuffled through the papers, looking for the SOCO evidence listing. "Barcos on one, Avicula on the other."

"Did you say, 'Barcos'? That's 'Boat' in Spanish," said Newman.

" Avicula. Does the first name begin with an 'N'?" Hathaway wanted to know.

"Good on you. So it means 'boat' too, in what, Latin?"

Hathaway nodded. "So Boatwright sends her narcotics, faking a prescription. Pills are used to sedate her so that someone in his employ can kill her a couple of years later. Still missing something. Why the delay?"

Newman stared out the window, thinking. His leg began to bounce.

Hathaway chewed the inside of his cheek.

"James," said Lewis, quietly. "Let's just work on getting the lad back, yeah?"

++++

"We've got officers at Paddington train station and the Tube looking for them."

Lewis checked his watch. "Lad should be getting on to bed about now."

"Carrying a sleeping child will slow him down," said Hathaway, pulling up to the curb and putting the official police vehicle card on the dash. 

"Wait, wait." Lewis grabbed Hathaway by the arm. "You're thinking like fathers, we're all thinking like fathers. We need to think like coppers. Man on the run with a burden…."

"He'd put the boy in a bag," said Newman. "A duffle. Something he can sling onto his back." 

"Aye, and drug him, most like." Lewis heaved a sigh. "I'll put out the word," he took out his mobile, watching the two men rush ahead. They could be brothers, same height, build. Newman, though, moved with a powerful, solid energy where Hathaway moved with more speed than grace. 

Lewis finished his update, flashed his warrant card at the transit officer, and headed for the trains. They were behind Boatwright by an hour. He passed by the Paddington bear statue, thought of reading the stories to his grandson and stopped dead in his tracks.

Paddington bear was an English character, never had a Disney film like Pooh. This boy was American. He'd have a—

"Take the Tube—they're heading to Teddington. It's a teddy bear," he rang up Hathaway and Newman, catching them up at the platform. 

"Makes sense, doesn't it, can't take a plane to Heathrow or Chunnel train—they need to go by water," Lewis stopped to catch his breath. "District line or Circle, whichever is first, we can switch at Glouchester to get to—Richmond? Why didn't he stay on the Paddington train? He's backtracking."

Hathaway rang off. "I've alerted Teddington. We should go back up, get the car." His jaw was set. "Would Boatwright have an accomplice, someone meeting him at Teddington?"

Newman gave him a hard look. "How the fuck should I know?" he turned away, taking a deep breath. 

The platform started filling up with passengers. Another car due in two minutes. There was an exclamation several feet away, as someone tripped.

"Goddamn it! Nearly broke my neck, what is that?"

"I keep telling my girl, if you don't pick them up I'm not buying them anymore. Can't go barefoot in the flat without stepping on a Lego."

Hathaway's head jerked up. He dashed to the spot and came back with a two blue Legos framing a white Lego. 

Newman dug the palms of his hands into his eyes and then scrubbed his face. "Okay. Okay, we're on the right track. Yeah. Accomplice. Possible. Big organization. It would be a big boat, seaworthy. They have money, a shitload of money."

The car pulled up, doors opened. "Stay or go, make a decision," said Lewis.

They boarded, stood holding passenger poles, despite the vacant seats. Too much sitting, too much of sense of doing nothing, Lewis guessed. He knew that it was being handled, that other officers were scouring the city, the river, looking for the boy. This right here, being here for these two men, that was what he could do. Following a trail of clues left by a five year old. Hoping they'd find the boy alive.

"You think he's going to try to cross the channel?"

Newman rested his head on the pole. "I think—no, I know—he's going to kill Jamie. Like—Christ, you have no idea, Hathaway, no idea. Fuck, that's why they've waited. For years. This is Shimali's revenge for me bringing down their boy, putting him in jail, destroying their family." He squared his shoulders, regaining control. "He's destroying mine."

Hathaway's usual unemotional mask slipped, then, for a moment, his face becoming suddenly soft, hurt. It was replaced with resolve. "So he'll head to open water and then—what? Execute a child?"

"Not right away, but yeah." Newman met Lewis' eyes. "What would you do, Inspector, if someone threatened your family, killed say, your wife, your kid?"

Lewis ground his teeth together. 

"No. Not a good question," Hathaway interjected hurriedly. His eyes flashed a warning. "Don't." He took a deep breath, looking from one man to the other. "MPU is out in force along the Thames. They know the stakes. We have to trust that they will do their job. We have to trust that everyone will do their job."

"Trust? Jesus. No wonder you guys lost your Empire," said Newman, shaking his head. "Haven't heard that word since the war. Trust. Best kind of trust is to do it yourself."

Lewis gave him a disgusted look. "Why's he backtracking to Richmond?" He stared up at the route map. "He'd be better off taking the line straight out—"

"To Tower Bridge. Could catch a large tourist tour boat out from there."

"Or he could be planning to change lines and head for the London Airport."

"Took care of that. They're sending out helicopters to help the effort on the water."

They fell silent.

"Keep thinking of Dunkirk." Lewis mused. "All those ships sailing from Teddington to Dunkirk in World War II."

Newman huffed a sigh. "These guys have the money to do that, hire a bunch of ships as decoys."

"Would they do that?"

"Seems like we're missing something here, Agent." Lewis' voice was steely. "How badly do they want to hurt you? Is the death of one child enough? Is there more we need to know? Are our officers in extreme danger out there?"

Newman's eyes flashed. He gave a curt nod. "I can't discuss it here. Suffice it to say, yes, sir, I believe so."

"Bloody hell. And our people know this? You're certain?"

Newman nodded. He met Lewis eyes. "They know. If Boatwright was affiliated with the guys I took down, then yeah, it's big. But—" he shook his head. "None of this seems right. It's—chaotic. If he was embedded like I was, he'd have to have a better plan than this."

"This seems haphazard at best. Your arrival—not Scarlett's—put things in motion. More a personal vendetta rather than a targeted operation." Hathaway's mouth thinned. "Once he passes the Teddington Lock, jurisdiction goes to the Port of London Authority."

"Seem to know a lot about it, that part of the river, I mean."

"Yeah, I—" Hathaway closed his eyes and grimaced. "I am a dolt. A colossal idiot. This isn't about you. This is about me," he nodded, to himself. "It's got to be Teddington, Robbie. While we were building the pirate ship, I was telling Jim—Jamie—about rowing. How fast a boat could go. How fast I had rowed on the river. How his mum liked the water. How the river became the sea at Teddington." 

Hathaway stared at Newman. "You didn't live with her the whole time in California, did you? You were there, off and on, right? When did you come back?"

"Two years ago. Even then it was off and on, and, aw, Jesus, are you saying—Boatwright?"

"Are you surprised? Scarlett? You, me and Boatwright. You fixed her car, he probably fixed her father's yacht and I was the old friend who was only mentioned in the book. Then you're gone, she takes up with Boatwright, again, here, in England while she's in prison. Has Jim—Jamie—and then moves to the States. He follows. Or maybe she moves to the States to be with Boatwright. It doesn't matter. When you're there, he's not. When he's there, you're not. It becomes an issue when Jim is old enough to know and remember. Then Boatwright moves here. You know about him, but don't appear to care. He knows about you, and becomes obsessed. And you suddenly get a break on your case that puts you in prison, supposedly, for the next ten years."

 

 

"Because he doesn't know who I really am, what I really do."

"Precisely. He's here, waiting for her when she returns. In the meantime, she's written a book, and he finds out that her child is the son of a law enforcement officer—"

"You think he thought he was Jamie's dad?"

"Why not? We both thought—think—that might be the case." Hathaway regarded Newman closely.

Newman closed his eyes, gave a slight nod.

"So Scarlett returns to the estate in England thinking Newman here is going to be in prison in the States for eight to ten years," said Lewis. "Boatwright is waiting for her because he's arranged for Newman's arrest."

"They see each other on the sly for a few months because she knows her book is going to hit the shelves and she's going to make a lot of money. And maybe she doesn't feel like sharing. The question is: does he pay for her to be killed or did he poison her himself so that she'd be easier to kill?" Lewis rubbed his neck. "Was he involved with her murder at all? Seems like the cook might have snapped, reading what Scarlett wrote."

"But how did he know that Newman had returned to the UK?"

"Social services would have notified him since Newman is a person of interest in the case and might try to contact Jim. Gave Boatwright an excuse and the time to move—oh, it's perfect, all right." Lewis heaved a sigh. "Would he kill the boy, though?"

"Yeah," Newman ventured. "He'd have to do something drastic now because we've got him in a corner. Christ, we've forced his hand."

"What if he's just a dad who wants his son?" said Lewis, wanting to air all possible views. "What if he is trying to protect a child he believes to be his? Trying to protect the boy from Newman, here."

"He would have called the police," Hathaway put in. 

"Not if he thought you were involved. You'd have to be the law enforcement officer," Lewis said, matter of fact. "Innocent arranged for you to see the child—what's that look like to Boatwright? Special favors."

Hathaway pounded his head gently on the hand holding the pole. "While we were building the boat, he was there, listening, helping to build the boat and it never occurred to me that he gave us the sail for the ship—it was perfectly proportioned."

"Boatwright," said Newman. "He's gotta sail, then, name like that."

"So why Teddington?"

"Teddington's the largest series of locks on the river—it becomes deeper, tidal water. There's a boat hire company between Teddington and Richmond--it's one of the few places to hire a boat on the downstream side of the lock." Hathaway looked up at the tube map on the side of the car above their heads. "We may have to split up. He might take the Circle line out to Tower Bridge, hop onto a tour ship and head out to Thames Barrier."

"Teddington," said Lewis. "Where you go, I go."

Newman nodded. "Lead on, Macduff."

Hathaway huffed a bitter, startled laugh. "Please. An American mouthing Shakespeare is—wrong."

+++

The night clerk at the boat hire company at Teddington stared at the photo on the mobile in Lewis' hand. "Aye, that's him. Didn't see a boy, though." He pulled out a smart tablet and scrolled. "Here. Took it out about ninety minutes ago. Said he was going to sleep well onboard before getting up early to study the gastropods on the Isleworth Ait." He pursed his lips, blowing a raspberry. "I can show you what he rented, if you've a mind to walk out to the slip."

Lewis called in the information to the London Port Authority as they walked. The night air was warm, and the sound of laughter and music from moored boats carried over the water. Vessels sporting twinkling lights trolled quietly past.

"What's the allowed speed here?" Newman asked, eyeing the boat.

"Eight to ten knots give or take." The clerk grinned. "Are we going to get some excitement out here? Heard you calling for backup. Special rate if you'd like to hire a boat. Could use the publicity." He winked. 

"Yeah," said Newman, pulling out his wallet. "Let's go get him." He handed over a limp, folded sheet of paper with his credit card and passport. "My ICC." He met Lewis' questioning glance and quirked a smile. "International certification. Amazingly enough, doesn't qualify me to operate a vessel in my own country—but it's good all over Europe and the Mediterranean."

Lewis and Hathaway boarded. Newman signed off on the tablet and then took a deep breath. "You understand this is a police emergency."

"Just take it beyond the dock before you open her up, aye, there's a good fellow."

Newman leapt onto the boat and muscled Hathaway to the side. "I'll drive, you navigate. You know the river—I don't want to end up on a sandbar." He eased the boat past the dock and then glanced back at Lewis, who was holding onto the rail, looking ahead. "Hang on."

The boat roared to life as he went full throttle, shooting forward. Hathaway gave a howl, Newman joined him. It was exhilarating, feeling like they were finally doing something.

Lewis grinned, and hunkered into his jacket. Between the wind and the water it was suddenly cold and he was reminded again of the small lad probably laid out asleep on a boat ahead of them. Newman and Hathaway sobered around the same instant, as they raced past the aits before the Kew Railway Bridge. 

Their speed was not welcomed by the partiers on the boats moored in private slips along the river's edge. They sped past mansions and businesses, moving to avoid commercial watercraft, barges, and the occasional slow moving tour boat. 

"Slow down, this is a blind—shit. You were lucky," muttered Hathaway, as they left an unfurled sailboat in their wash. 

"I'm hoping to get a speeding ticket," grinned Newman, as Lewis looked over his shoulder at the instrument panel. "I want a whole armada of police boats at my beck and call."

Lewis shook his head and used the radio, reading off the vessel ID, and identifying himself and their purpose. 

"Be advised: stand down," said the harbor duty officer. "We have the other vessel in sight and are arranging personnel to board. Coast guard in pursuit upriver. River traffic has been contained upriver of of Putney Bridge. Do not interfere with boarding, Oxfordshire."

The lights of the helicopter were obscured by buildings between their lines of sight. They could hear the garbled amplification of instructions over the water.

"Harbormaster," Lewis advised, "There is a five year old boy on that vessel that may be incapacitated. He might be in a duffle bag or—"

"We are monitoring the vessel for disposal of cargo—"

"Shit! He's a kid, not cargo!"

"Fuck!"

"Bloody hell!"

"My apologies," crackled the radio voice. "Listen, we're doing all we can to make sure that the boy is released unharmed. Please—don’t try to be heroes, we need to keep this area clear. Port Authority out."

Newman throttled back as they came around the bend. A group of boats were being pushed back by MPU boats. Lewis started looking around for a megaphone beneath the instrument console.

"Couldn't find one," said Hathaway. He moved aft, opening and slamming closed deck box after deck box looking for equipment. His mobile rang. "Hathaway. Yeah," he moved to the side of the boat and waved. 

Some distance away on an MPU boat, a figure in a white breaker waved both arms frantically.

"Friend of yours?" Lewis' voice was sour. 

Hathaway quirked a smile. "Ours. It's Jean Innocent. Laura's below. Did you know Laura's a certified diver? Yeah," he spoke into the mobile, "I'll put you on speaker, ma'am."

"Who's driving that boat? I didn't sign off on that."

"I did, Jean."

"Who's that? James?"

"Jake Newman, ma'am. Blank check from Uncle Sam. Need anything?"

"I need you to back your arse away from our rescue, Agent Newman."

"Understood, Chief Super. Just making sure that they are taking good care of that little US citizen. Anyone in contact with the kidnapper? Has he made demands?"

There was a sigh. "He has."

"Well?"

"We are unwilling to comply."

"What the fuck? I'll write him a check, buy him an airliner, whatever he wants."

"He wants Inspector Hathaway."

Hathaway shrugged out of his jacket, handed Lewis his mobile, and dove over the side.

"Ma'am—" Lewis began.

"I saw it." Innocent held the mobile away from her mouth, "Get a light on that man, the one in the water—no, he's an officer! Of course he can bloody well swim—look at him!"

There was a second splash. The boat radio squawked. "Oxfordshire, we see two men in the water. They are advised—"

Lewis grabbed the mic and the radio squealed with feedback that shot through the comm systems of all the boats on the frequency. "Those are officers in the water, Port Authority," he bit out in a cold voice, "Inspector James Hathaway of Oxford Police and US DEA Agent Jake Newman, the boys' fathers. If you don't want an international incident, I suggest you let them do their bloody job!" He slammed the mic down, breaking the plastic holder.

Hathaway and Newman raced to the boat. Other police swimmers and divers were in the water now, as well as six Coast Guard life rafts, all converging on the vessel. The MPU craft were drawing closer.

"Brilliant, Robbie," said Jean on the mobile, sarcastically. "Terrific way to cap both their careers. Outing an undercover officer. And Hathaway's paternity test isn't back yet."

"Aw, we'll sort it when they get the lad—" Lewis stopped.

Boatwright was standing near the stern of his boat as it bobbed unanchored in the water. Lewis watched in horror as laser lights danced on the man's jacket. Then Boatwright held up a duffle bag that looked to be attached to his arm.

"NO!"

Boatwright moved to the starboard side of the boat, holding the bag over the water. 

"Hold your fire!" The command reverberated over the water.

The helicopter whipped up the brackish water into whitecaps near the boat. No longer peppered with red laser-light, Boatwright moved in the spotlight of the Port Authority helicopter getting his fifteen seconds of fame. News copters hovered over the banks of the River Thames where people were spilling from their homes to watch the drama.

Newman and Hathaway were still nearly 300 meters away.

Boatwright pulled a gun from his pocket and fired at the swimmers as he moved to the bow. Leaning precariously forward over the gunwale, he dangled the bag containing the child.

"Say again, hold your fire! We will not board. Put the child—"

And Boatwright put the gun to the side of his head, fired, and pitched over the side, taking the bag with him.

All hell broke loose.

+++

Hathaway felt the bullet hit, but it didn't slow him down as long as he kept that shoulder immersed in the cold water. Forgot how cold the Thames gets this time of year, he thought, pushing into the pain. His lungs hurt and his suit trousers were a drag in the water, trapping air and slowing him down. Newman was ahead by a length, from what he could tell now that his contacts had washed out of his eyes. 

The boat was ahead of him—a white blur bobbing in the too bright searchlight. He heard a roar of sound and lifted his head to see something go over the side of the boat.

He punched the water as he swam, lead arms unable to move him closer or faster to his objective: a dark blob that was slowly descending beneath the reflected glow of the searchlight. He dived, trying to make it out in the murk, hampered by his poor vision and the sudden realization that the ribbon of red that swathed his movements was coming from his shoulder, which was now aching as he changed motion to swim underwater.

There was the bag—he got beneath it, feeling small limbs and hoping that they'd move again. Pushing it up from the bottom toward the surface, he suddenly felt the weight lifted from him as Newman pulled it upward.

Good. That was sorted, then. Hathaway emptied his mind and tried to relax, allowing himself to float so that he'd be an easy victim to rescue. 

Then he felt a tug on his foot, a hand on his ankle.

Boatwright stared up at him and pulled him down, yanking him. The water was red with blood and still the man held on.

Hathaway kicked, instinctively, thrashing, trying to break the hold. 

This was once the classic definition of a death grip, his mind supplied: the cadaverous spasm at the instant of death. According to his last lifesaving certification materials, however, the actual behavior of a drowning person is more passive as they lack the oxygen to take violent action. Instead, an instinctive paddling reflex occurs. 

He wondered if inviting the author of those materials to experience an actual drowning would result in a more truthful explanation. 

He wondered when his instinctive paddling reflex would kick in.

He wondered if the Vulcan death grip would work. No, not the death grip. The mind meld. Must be losing consciousness to make that mistake. How could he mistake the two? Could he impart his thoughts to another, perhaps tell them what he felt? If Lewis was outside the flooded compartment on the Enterprise, would he hear my thoughts if our hands were pressed together on either side of transparent aluminum? 

+++

Lewis held his palm against Hathaway's face as he had for the last few hours. Whenever he took it away, James frowned as if in confusion.

"A penny for his thoughts," said Laura, settling a takeaway bag on the edge of the hospital bed. She spread her hands over his. "Come on, Robbie. You need to eat something, use the loo." She eased his fingers away, replacing them with her own.

Hathaway frowned in response.

"He'll live till you get back, Robbie. Go." She sat down on the edge of the bed, one hand against Hathaway's face. She picked up her coffee with her other hand. "Time to wake up, sleeping beauty. The prince is getting anxious." She sighed and glanced away.

"Sleeping beauty?" Hathaway croaked.

She smiled and took his hand. "Robbie's been holding your hand for hours. I sent him to the loo. What do you remember?"

"Vulcan death grip."

She nodded. "You did, in fact, have a," she smirked, "A Klingon."

"Is he dead?"

"No. Might wish he was, though—"

"Jamie!" Hathaway tried to sit up. 

"He's fine. Fine," she pushed him gently on the chest to settle him back against the pillows. "He swallowed enough of the Thames to make him an honorary Englishman, though, so he'll be in hospital for a few more days. You were shot in the shoulder, through and through. You should be out tomorrow, now that you're awake. Getting an impressive array of interesting scars, Hathaway." 

She took his hand in both of hers. "Jake got Jamie out of the water and dived back in for you. Boatwright nearly pulled both of you under but he was prevented from doing so by a dynamic female swimmer in underwater gear."

Hathaway quirked a grin. "Cheers."

"She had help," said Lewis, returning to the room. "I threw in the life preserver. And Innocent, well, I don't think anyone could ignore what she yelled into that megaphone."

Hathaway looked from one to the other, waiting.

Laura's eyes twinkled as she pulled her mobile from her pocket and accessed YouTube.

The camera jiggled. The searchlight was trained on the deserted boat. Over the thwap-thwap of the helicopter, the drone of warnings keeping the boats at bay, one clear amplified voice rose over the water: "Stop firing, you idiots! And get my officers out of the fucking Thames!"

Innocent swept in,then, carrying a huge vase of stylish orchids and flowers. "From your admirers."

Hathaway's eyebrows rose. "The station?"

"Ah, no," said Innocent carefully. She handed him the floral card.

"'To Inspector James Hathaway from The London Gay Men's Chorus—Hope you're back in the swim soon!' That's nice," he said, somewhat uncertainly.

"Jake got one too," Innocent offered. 

Hathaway gave her a look. 

"It was my fault," said Lewis, sitting down in the guest chair. "I said something in the heat of the moment."

"Robbie?" The corner of Hathaway's mouth curled up at the corner, questioning. 

"No," Laura interrupted, before James could say anything more. "He referred to you and Jake as the 'fathers of the boy' over the intercom during the rescue. It went viral. Then Jake said that you and he were partners and during the press conference someone asked which of you was the boy's father and he said it didn't matter."

"Oh. But he is Jim's father."

There was dead silence.

"You knew Jake was Jamie's dad?"

Hathaway nodded. "Blood type."

"You're type O," said Lewis.

"And Jim is type B, as is Jake." Hathaway picked at the sheet. "I knew when Jake told me his bloodtype, about ten minutes after we first met. And then we were looking for Jim. It didn't matter." He shrugged awkwardly because of the dressing on his shoulder.

"So all the arguing about what to call the boy, Jim or Jamie, that was a wind up?"

"No. Jamie wanted to be called Jim. I respect that." He looked from one to another of them. "I was called Jim until I was his age and after that I insisted on being called James. I am not a Jim. I am very much a James."

"True dat," said Newman from the door. He was pushing a wheelchair. Tubes snaked from Jim's arms and he wore a nasal cannula. The boy was pale, but smiling. "Guess I'm going to have to call you Jim from now on," he said to his son. 

"Hi, Mr. Hathaway," said Jim in a soft breathy voice. 

Hathaway smiled softly. "Hey."

"You look like shit," said the boy. The adults from Oxford stared at the child. He glared back at his dad. "I told you it isn't funny. It's a bad word. Mr. Hathaway said so."

Jake shrugged. "Had to go for the laugh, given that I, too, have received a fabulous floral arrangement. And," he winked. "I got tickets for a performance with my flowers, so I'm taking Jim here and we're going to see Pirates of Penzance."

"And you're invited, Mr. Hathaway," said Jim in the same wheezy voice. He gave a little cough. "My d-a-d," he drew the word out, "said you can come."

"You're inviting me to attend with you and Jim?" Hathaway asked. 

Newman grinned. "I'm inviting you and your partner Robbie to join me and my son, yes."

"Um. We work together. Not that kind of partner."

"We'd be delighted," Lewis took James' hand in his own. "Can't wait."

There was a startled silence. 

"I like Gilbert and Sullivan," said Lewis. "I like James, right enough." His gaze flicked from Laura to Jean to Jake and finally to James. "Anyone have an issue with that? You don't have an issue with that, do you, Hathaway?"

Hathaway shook his head, clearly surprised and somewhat suspicious. "This is a set up, isn't it?"

Innocent sighed and dug into her purse. "I lose more bets on you two." She handed a two pound coin to Laura, who held it up and grinned. 

"I have season tickets," Laura explained. "Franco and I won't be able to go, and it was a simple matter to arrange for two more so that you two would be properly chaperoned. I thought, given your fondness for ships and sailing you might enjoy it."

"Me and my d-a-d," Jim proudly drew out the word again so everyone would notice, "Me and my d-a-d are gonna make sure you don't get frisky, he says."

"I think it's time for the lad to go back to bed," said Lewis, blushing.

Jim's voice was soft. "Is frisky a bad word?" He gave a couple of coughs.

"I can think of worse ones," said Hathaway.

"It means 'playful.'" said Lewis. "Puppies are frisky."

"I'm gonna find it in the dic-tionary." He giggled to himself. "I love the dic-tionary. A dic-tionary is the best book ever."

"Yeah. Goes on and on about the dictionary now." Newman seemed pleased. "Guess some of your fine education rubbed off on him." 

The child giggled and looked at Hathaway.

"You are being ri-dic-ulous, Jim," smiled James. 

The child beamed. 

+++

"So you outed Newman over the radio," said Hathaway after everyone had left. "He'll never be able to go undercover again."

"Better for the boy that way. Outed you, too."

"I'm not gay."

Lewis nodded. "Still taking you to see Pirates of Penzance though."

"The two are not mutually exclusive."

"I know." He got onto the hospital bed on the other side of Hathaway, and took the remote. 

"What are you doing?"

"Watching telly with you. Move over a bit." 

++++++

A week later, on the Front Quad at St. John's College in Oxford:

Lewis sat down on the bench next to Hathaway, who held a football in his lap. 

"I didn't have a chance to give it to him. He thanked me for the book, the Legos, shook my hand, and left."

"Newman?"

"Jim." Hathaway huffed a sigh. "Newman said he'd send an email when they get settled. They're going to live in Maryland so he can have a desk job. Says he's going to send Jim to Catholic school."

Lewis' eyes widened. "Oh, the lad's going to have a rude awakening." He nudged Hathaway with his shoulder. "I think the next time I go to visit my grandson, you're coming with me. You need to spend some time with kids. Make you a better copper."

"I thought I was good with kids."

"With teens especially. Need to learn more about little kids, though. You were too close, you let it throw you."

"I thought he was my son until Newman showed up. I re-read that portion of the book. Scarlett believed I was Jim's father." He leaned forward. "She—" He bounced the ball angrily, and then leaned back with a disgusted look. "I've never said this about a woman in my life, but she was a real--." He frowned in distaste and stopped abruptly. "—And I can't now. I can't. I want to, though."

Lewis gave him a look. "She left you with a lot of unanswered questions."

"She did." Hathaway stared at the ball. "Inspector Bhatia gave me some time with the kitchen assistant who killed Scarlett. No connection with Boatwright, no remorse. Thought she was doing the world a favor." He heaved a sigh. "Jim's better off."

"Lad didn't deserve to lose his mother, no matter what she did."

Hathaway shared a brief look with Robbie, his eyes glittering. He gave a curt nod and looked away. "Right."

"You don't agree."

"Nope." Palms on either side of the ball, he squeezed it, hard. "She beat him. He tried to defend her. And yet she beat him."

"James—" Robbie felt Hathaway stiffen beside him. Guess that was enough soul-searching for one day. He let the moment go. Lewis settled his hand on Hathaway's shoulder. He could feel the hurt emanating from the man. He slid his arm across James' shoulders, hugging him awkwardly, careful of the bandage he could feel beneath the suit.

Hathaway eased back against Robbie, aware that they were postponing That Discussion yet again. "Newman thought we were partners. Life partners."

"We are."

Hathaway turned to him. "He meant—"

"I know what he meant. We are." Lewis cocked his head. "Aren't we?"

Hathaway's mouth curled up in a tentative smile. 

Lewis took the soccer ball from James and grinned. "Gotta get you in shape if we're gonna play with my grandson. Lyn's been coaching him." He leaned into him. "Can you bend it like Beckham?"

"Robbie," Hathaway said deliberately, looking Lewis in the eye fondly, his voice deep. 

Lewis laughed, startled. "Just been on the one date, Hathaway. Give a man a chance." He bounced the ball, eyes twinkling. He thought of the passage he'd dog-eared in Scarlett's book and wondered how James might make him feel 'wicked beyond redemption.' 

"Of course I can bend it like Beckham." Hathaway smirked. "I can bend it whatever way you like."

Man's a bloody mind reader. "I look forward to that, then," Lewis grinned. "Looking forward to that very much."

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Most things are good, and they are the strongest things; but there are evil things too, and you are not doing a child a favor by trying to shield him from reality. The important thing is to teach a child that good can always triumph over evil. - Walt Disney  
> "Animal House" is the movie with the food fight and toga party.  
> Jean Innocent paraphrases Hillary Rodham Clinton, who used an African quote: "It takes a village to raise a child" as the title for her 1996 book: It Takes a Village: And Other Lessons Children Teach Us.


End file.
